UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 


Deceived 
Accessions 


JAN  1895       .  '89    • 

Clem  No. 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


>7 


G 


POEMS. 


BY 


EDWARD    POLLOCK. 


U&IVBHSIT7 


PHILADELPHIA: 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  &  CO. 
1876. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1876,  by 

J.  B.   LIPPINCOTT   &   CO., 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


TKTz    IJ  A  f,' C  li  <J  F  T    UHRARY 


TO 


THIS  VOLUME 
IS   RESPECTFULLY   INSCRIBED. 


PREFACE. 


THE  poems  of  this  little  volume — mere  fragments  of 
a  highly-gifted,  poetical  mind — are  presented  not  as  a 
challenge  to  admiration,  or  to  the  criticism  that  natu- 
rally follows  the  pretentious  weaving  of  rhythmical 
webs  of  song.  They  are  given  to  publication  through 
the  promptings  of  filial  affection,  and,  beyond  that,  of 
the  friendship,  warm,  intimate,  and  steadfast,  which  the 
author's  early  associates  in  California  felt  for  him. 
During  a  short  life  which  was  a  struggle  for  education, 
gained  by  him  without  a  master,  he  could  not  be 
expected  to  have  written  much.  But  he  wrote  well, 
as  the  following  pages  will  prove.  As  with  gems,  so 
with  the  poems  of  Mr.  Pollock, — quality  is  superior  to 
quantity. 

To  the  few  who  had  the  favor  of  his  friendship,  he 
was  a  present  pleasure,  a  great  hope  of  the  future. 
He  had  the  poetic  temperament.  He  understood  the 
art  of  poetry  thoroughly.  Imagination,  invention, 
passion,  fancy,  and  the  power  of  expression  were  his, 
and  rhyme  and  rhythm,  as  ornaments,  were  appre- 
ciated and  made  subservient  to  the  intended  effect. 

5 


6  PREFACE. 

Yet  what  he  produced  was  but  as  the  flutterings  of  the 
falcon  ere  he  strikes  for  the  higher  air  and  the  object 
afar. 

We  who  knew  him  believed  in  his  great  capacity 
and  brilliant  future,  and  it  has  been  a  difficult  thing 
to  reconcile  our  disappointed  hopes  to  the  inevitable 
decree  that  took  him  so  early  and  so  suddenly  away. 
Full  of  lofty  ambition  that  aspired  to  a  grand  niche  in 
the  temple,  gathering  the  materials  for  the  flight,  like 
Columbus  struggling  against  all  obstacles,  just  as  the 
sails  were  ready  to  be  spread,  the  ship  went  down  at 
her  moorings,  and  only  the  few  floating  fragments 
given  in  this  volume  remain  of  all  the  brilliant  prom- 
ises and  golden  anticipations  our  argosy  contained. 
But,  like  the  relics  of  the  saints,  they  are  the  more 
valuable  because  of  their  limited  number. 

Should  the  public  judge  favorably  and  kindly  of 
them,  it  will  be  gratifying  to  those  who  knew  and 
esteemed  the  author.  But  to  such  these  fragments 
of  a  highly-endowed  intellect  possess  a  double  value, 
being  estimated  not  merely  as  literary  productions, 
but  also  as  mementos  to  keep  perpetually  green  the 
author's  memory. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

LINES  WRITTEN  BY   THE    GRAVE   OF   EDWARD   POLLOCK    .  9 

To  HIS  MEMORY 12 

STANZAS  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  EDWARD  POLLOCK       .       .  14 

SKETCH  OF  THE  POET 16 

THE  FALCON 21 

ELVA 37 

ITALIA 58 

LINES  TO  A  FALLEN  STAR 70 

THE  PILGRIMAGE  INTO  THULE 75 

MARY  GRAY     .       .        .        .  ~ 99 

EVENING 103 

OLIVIA 105 

ADALINE 108 

IN  MEMORIAM — EDWARD  TR AVERS no 

DISUNION 114 

A  REFLECTION .       .117 

THE  CHANDOS  PICTURE 119 

ODE  TO  CALIFORNIA 122 

GOLD  is  KING 127 

AN  EXILE'S  SONG 131 

THE  DYING  EXILE 134 

To  A.  J.  C.,  OF  MARYSVILLE 137 

LINES 139 

THE  GOLDEN  DAYS  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUNG    .        .        .        .141 

INVOCATION  AT  MIDNIGHT 142 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  PACIFIC  COAST 144 

THERE  is  A  LOVE  THAT  CHANGETH  NEVER      .        .        .146 

THE  LATEST  "POME" 148 

THE  PARTING  HOUR 150 

WHEN  THE  TWILIGHT  DEWS  ARE  FALLING       .        .       .151 

ALL  THY  WORKS  PRAISE  THEE 153 

7 


8  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

THE  WISSAHICKON 154 

NIGHT  MUSINGS 157 

THE  BRIDE  OF  HEAVEN 160 

SONG  OF  DANCERS 187 

SHIPS  AT  SEA 189 

To  INEZ 190 

SCOTCH  SONG 192 

FRAGMENT,— DIFFERENT  EFFECTS  OF  NATURAL  SCENERY 

ON  THE  JUST  AND  ON  THE  CORRUPT  MlND  .  .  193 

LINES  TO  AN  ABSENT  HUSBAND 195 

THE  WINDS  OF  SPRING 197 

EVERMORE 198 

SONG 200 

MAY- DAY 201 

THE  SQUATTER 204 

AN  ADDRESS  TO  DEPARTING  WINTER 208 

NIGHT — A  VISION 211 

A  FRAGMENT 214 

DREAM-LAND 216 

TIME 218 

MOONLIGHT 219 

THE  CHOICE .  222 

DREAMS 223 

To  MY  MOTHER 225 

FEAR  NOT 227 

ODE  TO  MAY 228 

To  M 229 

SONG 230 

THE  Kiss 231 

IN  MEMORIAM— THOMAS  O.  LARKIN 232 

SONG 233 

A  DREAM 234 

EPITAPH  ON  EDWARD  POLLOCK 236 

LINES  WRITTEN  IN  THE  TROPICS,  DURING  A  VOYAGE  TO 

CALIFORNIA 236 

DIED,— ISABELLA  POLLOCK 237 

HAPPINESS,— A  FRAGMENT 238 

LOVE-SONG 239 

MIDNIGHT  240 


LINES    WRITTEN    BY    THE     GRAVE 
OF    EDWARD    POLLOCK. 

PAUSE,  friend  !  this  dust  is  dear. 
A  poet  lies  beneath  the  sod  you  tread, 
Where  spring  has  sprinkled  flowers  above  his  head. 

Pollock  sleeps  here. 

Here  lies  his  dust.     His  soul 
Has  gone  to  find  the  sphere  his  genius  trod 
In  fancy  while  the  flesh,  that  cumbrous  clod, 

Weighed  down  the  whole. 

He  trod  the  earth  as  one, 
A  visitor  from  some  far-distant  sphere, 
Soul-filled  with  beauty ;  but  he  lieth  here ; 

His  work  is  done. 

No  more  to  touch  the  strings 

Whose  grand  pulsations  thrilled  the  soul  and  brain, 
Till  Shakspeare's  spirit  seemed  to  float  again 

On  charmed  wings. 

Across  the  moaning  wave 
His  "lost  Olivia's"  plaintive  tones  I  hear, 
And  all  his  brilliant  brain-born  forms  appear 

Around  his  grave. 
A*  9 


10  LINES   WRITTEN  BY  THE 

For,  though  no  sculptured  bust 
Nor  marble  shaft  marks  where  my  poet  lies, 
A  glorious  throng,  his  brain-creations,  rise 

Above  his  dust ; 

And  busy  fancy  weaves 

A  wreath  for  these  unseen  yet  glorious  things. 
I  feel  their  presence,  hear  their  moving  wings, 

Like  whispering  leaves. 

How  beautiful  they  are, — 
These  children  of  my  poet,  come  again  ! 
Their  presence  tells  me  the  creating  brain 

Cannot  be  far. 

I  hear  -the  ocean's  mass, 
As  thou  didst  hear  it,  sitting  by  the  shore :  \ 
The  fogs  come  sailing  in,  and  floating  o'er 

Grim  Alcatraz. 

I  hear  the  moaning  sea : 
Thy  "  Adaline"  is  waiting  by  the  strand  ; 
And  he,  thy  "  Master,"  luminous  and  grand, 

Is  waiting  thee. 

Sweet  singer,  art  thou  near  ? 
Some  token  give  that  still  thy  spirit  clings 
To  this  thy  body's  resting-place,  and  sings 

In  silence  here. 

Where  is  thy  soul's  abode  ? 
In  some  blest  sphere,  that  oft  thy  fancy  sought, 
Thy  spirit  rests ;  there,  with  the  loved,  forgot 

Life's  weary  load. 


GRAVE    OF  EDWARD   POLLOCK. 

The  fate  of  genius  thine, 
To  sing  as  angels  sang  when  earth  they  trod. 
For  bread  thy  nectar  gave,  fit  for  a  god 

Thy  spirit's  wine. 

To  feel  life's  bitter  cold, 
To  give  the  world  the  treasures  of  thy  brain, 
Unrecompensed,  and  wait  return  in  vain 

For  all  thy  gold. 

Thine  was  the  common  lot 
Of  souls  inspired,  who  cannot  choose  but  sing: 
Didst  live  in  thy  lone  world,  imagining, 

And  filled  each  spot 

With  fancies  beautified, 

And  hung  the  pictures  where  the  world  could  see, 
Gave  of  thy  best  with  largess  broad  and  free, 

Gave  all,  and — died  ! 

FRANK  SOULE* 


/..:, at  rap. 

UFI7BESIT7, 


TO    HIS    MEMORY. 

How  fast  the  saddened  seasons  onward  flow  ! 

Into  decades  the  years  and  lustrums  glide, 
Yet  for  thy  loss  our  hearts  no  solace  know, 

And  memory  lives  as  if  thou  hadst  not  died. 

My  spirit  long  hath  missed  and  mourned  for  thee, 
Hath  mourned  and  missed  thy  genial  presence  long, 

For  thou  wast  more  than  other  men  to  me, 
Thy  friendship  dearer,  pleasanter  thy  song. 

Though  fortune  favored  or  averse  was  found, 

The  same,  unfaltering  in  good  or  ill ; 
Though  smiled  success,  or  grim  misfortune  frowned, 

Through  life's  unnumbered  changes  changeless  still. 

Like  some  skilled  painter's  art  and  ready  hand, 
My  memory  calls  thee  from  the  dust  of  years, 

In  thy  fresh  manhood,  fashioned  to  command, 
Approval  winning  from  admiring  peers. 

Thou  art  to  me  as  some  grand  monument 

Conceived  and  founded  for  the  world's  acclaim, 

But  stopped  ere  yet  the  temple's  pediment 
Could  show  the  crowning  glory  of  thy  fame. 

As  some  fine  marble  block  Pentelican, 
Wrought  for  the  temple,  broken  by  a  fall, 

12 


TO  HIS  MEMORY.  l^ 

So  wast  thou  crushed  and  shattered ;  poet,  man, 
We  have  the  fragments  left  us, — that  is  all: 

The  fragments,  and  the  melancholy  thought, 
How  grand  the  finished  temple  was  to  be, 

But  failed,  because  the  brain  and  hand  that  wrought 
Ceased,  and  the  glory  dreamed  of  died  with  thee. 

FRANK  Sour,Ea 


STANZAS    ON    THE    DEATH    OF 
EDWARD    POLLOCK. 

BY   WILLIAM   H.    RHODES. 

HE  is  gone  !  the  young  and  gifted  ! 
By  his  own  strong  pinions  lifted 

To  the  stars, 

Where  he  strikes,  with  minstrels  olden, 
Choral  harps,  whose  strings  are  golden, 

Deathless  bars. 

There,  with  Homer's  ghost,  all  hoary, 
Not  with  years,  but  fadeless  glory, 

Lo  !  he  stands. 

Gazing  through  that  open  portal, 
We  behold  the  bards  immortal 

Shaking  hands. 

Hark  !  how  Rome's  great  epic  master 
Sings,  that  Death  is  no  disaster 

To  the  wise ; 

Fame  on  earth  is  but  a  menial, 
While  it  reigns  a  king  perennial 

In  the  skies. 

Albion's  blind  old  bard  heroic, 
Statesman,  sage,  and  Christian  stoic, 

Greets  his  son, 
14 


STANZAS.  15 

Whilst  in  paeans  wild  and  glorious, 
Like  his  "Paradise  Victorious," 

Sings,  "Well  done!" 

Lo  !  a  bard  with  forehead  pendent, 
But  with  glory's  beams  resplendent, 

As  a  star, 

Gliding  down  from  regions  higher, 
With  a  crown  and  golden  lyre 

In  his  car. 

Crowding  round  on  airy  pinions, 
Thrones  and  sceptres  and  dominions, 

Kings  and  queens, 
Ages  past  and  ages  present, 
Lord  and  dame,  and  prince  and  peasant, 

His  demesne  ! 

"Approach,  young  bard  Hesperian, 
Welcome  to  the  heights  empyrean ! 

Thou  didst  sing 
Ere  yet  thy  trembling  fingers 
Struck  where  fame  immortal  lingers 

In  the  string. . 

"  Kneel !     I  am  the  bard  of  Avon, 
And  the  Realm  of  Song  in  heaven 

Is  my  own  ! 

But  thy  verse  shall  live  in  story, 
And  thy  lyre  be  crowned  with  glory 

From  my  throne." 

OROVILLE,  CAL.,  January,  1859. 


SKETCH   OF   THE   POET. 

BY  JAMES   F.    BOWMAN. 


EDWARD  POLLOCK  was  born  on  the  2d  of  September, 
1823,  in  the  city  of  Philadelphia.  His  parents  were  in 
humble  circumstances,  and  at  an  early  age,  when  only 
in  his  tenth  or  eleventh  year,  his  father  placed  him  in 
a  cotton-factory  for  the  purpose  of  making  him  con- 
tribute something  towards  his  own  support.  There  the 
child  developed  rather  an  intractable  disposition.  He 
did  not  love  work, — at  least,  work  of  that  monotonous 
and  disagreeable  kind, — and  as  he  could  not  reconcile 
himself  to  the  position,  while  his  father  refused  to 
listen  to  his  objections,  he  at  length,  when  in  his  four- 
teenth year,  took  his  destiny  into  his  own  hands,  left 
the  factory,  and  apprenticed  himself  to  a  sign-painter, 
with  whom  he  remained  until  he  attained  his  majority. 
Yet  it  cannot  be  said  that  he  evinced  much  greater 
love  for  the  occupation  he  had  himself  chosen  than  for 
that  which  his  father  had  selected  for  him.  His  in- 
dustry, indeed,  was  extraordinary;  but  it  did  not  take 
the  direction  of  mechanical  labor.  In  the  acquisition 
of  knowledge  and  the  study  of  rhetorical  models  his 
ardor  knew  no  bounds,  and  he  seemed  to  experience  no 
fatigue  from  exertions  more  earnest  and  more  protracted 
than  are  ordinarily  witnessed  in  persons  of  his  age. 
He  never  had  a  day's  schooling,  and  from  his  eleventh 
to  his  twenty-first  year  he  was  chiefly  engaged  during 
16 


SKETCH  OF   THE  POET.  17 

the  day  in  manual  labor.  Yet  during  that  time  he 
managed  to  master  the  principles  of  English  grammar 
and  rhetoric,  and  to  acquire  a  remarkably  pure  and 
vigorous  style  of  composition,  in  addition  to  which  he 
made  himself  well  acquainted  with  the  chief  English 
classics,  in  both  prose  and  verse.  Considering  the  ob- 
stacles he  had  to  surmount,  his  industry  in  these  studies 
must  have  been  prodigious.  So  far  as  can  be  learned, 
he  had  neither  assistance  nor  sympathy  in  these  efforts 
to  educate  himself.  Before  his  twelfth  year  he  had 
commenced  the  habit  of  hoarding  up  such  small  sums 
as  came  into  his  own  possession,  and  as  soon  as  the 
accumulation  amounted  to  a  shilling  or  two  it  was  ex- 
pended at  some  one  of  the  stalls  for  the  sale  of  second- 
hand books,  which  he  constantly  haunted  in  his  hours 
of  leisure,  and  where,  when  too  poor  to  purchase,  he 
was  often,  as  other  gifted  poets  before  him  have  been, 
a  privileged  reader.  These  efforts  were  from  the  first 
stimulated  by  a  distinctive  literary  ambition.  From 
the  day  when,  while  still  in  the  cotton-factory,  he  ex- 
pended a  sixpence  for  a  dog's-eared  copy  of  Lindley 
Murray  (abridged),  he  aspired  to  become  a  poet.  To 
the  same  period  belong  his  first  efforts  in  verse,  none 
of  which,  however,  have  been  preserved.  At  the  age 
of  eighteen  he  began  to  write  for  the  local  press.  The 
superior  quality  of  his  contributions  was  at  once  recog- 
nized, and  the  favor  with  which  they  were  received 
ultimately  determined  him  to  a  literary  career. 

In  1852,  Pollock  came  to  California,  where  for  a 
year  or  two  he  worked  steadily  at  his  trade.  In  1854, 
Ferdinand  C.  Ewer  commenced  the  publication  of  the 
Pioneer  magazine,  and  Pollock  from  the  first  became 
a  regular  contributor.  It  was  in  the  February  number 

'    2* 


1 8  SKETCH  OF  THE   POET. 

of  this  periodical  for  the  year  1854  that  the  first  of 
his  poems  which  attracted  general  attention  appeared. 
The  poem  was  a  ballad,  entitled  "The  Falcon." 
The  editor  of  the  Pioneer,  who  enjoyed  the  reputation 
of  a  judicious  and  discriminating  critic,  thus  spoke  of 
the  poem  in  the  issue  in  which  it  appeared  : 

"  There  are  few  ballads  in  the  English  language  that 
are  its  superiors,  or  even  its  equals.  In  fact,  we  think 
of  none  that  is  its  superior,  save  the  '  Ancient  Mari- 
ner.' It  bears  about  it  evidences  of  care  in  its  prepa- 
ration. It  is  written  in  good  strong  Saxon.  Its  beauty 
does  not  consist  in  fine  phrases  and  pretty  words :  one 
must  look  deeper  for  its  true  worth,— into  its  structure 
and  entire  flow,  into  the  relative  proportions  of  its 
parts,  and  the  strength  of  the  whole.  Some  of  its 
ideas  are  expressed  with  exceeding  vigor : 

"  '  His  stalwart  limbs  were  shivering, 
So  heavily  weighed  his  load." 

"Each  paragraph  gradually  rises  in  effect,  to  its 
close ;  while  the  interest  of  the  whole  is  continually 
swelling  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  of  the  poem. 
The  denouement  is  natural,  while  at  the  same  time  it 
is  such  as  no  one  could  foresee.  Coleridge  has  height- 
ened the  effect  of  the  'Ancient  Mariner'  by  the  intro- 
duction of  the  supernatural  directly.  In  '  The  Falcon' 
such  machinery  is  used  as  gives  to  the  poem  all  the 
effect  of  the  supernatural  and  at  the  same  time  does 
not  shock  credulity.  Ralph's  madness  is  admirably 
developed  ;  and  his  being  drawn  on  at  the  last  by 
a  spectre  is  by  no  means  unnatural,  being  merely  a 
result  of  his  diseased  mind.  The  reader  should  peruse 
the  poem  several  times  to  thoroughly  appreciate  it." 


SKETCH  OF   THE   POET.  19 

In  July  of  the  same  year  appeared  the  "  Chandos 
Picture,"  a  poem  remarkable  alike  for  imaginative 
power  and  the  majesty  of  its  rhythmic  movement. 
In  March  he  published  "  Ooran  Lisle,"  a  prose  story, 
conceived  in  the  best  vein  of  Edgar  A.  Poe,  and  which, 
if  attributed  to  him,  would  not  be  considered  unworthy 
of  his  reputation.  In  August  appeared  an  essay  from 
his  pen  entitled  "Thoughts  toward  a  New  Epic," 
which  attracted  much  attention,  and  elicited  a  letter 
to  the  author  from  the  poet  Longfellow;  "Olivia," 
"Adeline,"  and  "Italia,"  three  poems  of  rare  and 
distinctive  beauty,  appeared  in  1855  and  1856,  serving 
to  confirm  Pollock's  most  enthusiastic  admirers  in  the 
high  estimate  they  had  formed  of  his  genius. 

In  1855,  Mr.  Pollock  commenced  the  study  of  law, 
and  in  the  year  following  (1856)  was  admitted  as 
Attorney  and  Counsellor  of  the  Supreme  Court  of 
California. 

For  a  month  prior  to  his  death,  which  occurred  on 
the  ^i  3th  of  December,  1858,  he  seemed  to  have  a  cer- 
tain presentiment  of  what  was  approaching.  Night 
after  night  during  this  period  he  called  on  the  writer 
of  this  sketch,  and  talked  by  the  hour  of  death  and  of 
the  possibility  of  a  future  life.  All  his  thoughts  seemed 
to  tend  in  that  one  direction.  Only  the  second  day 
before  his  decease  he  dwelt  upon  the  same  theme,  in 
connection  with  the  suicide  of  Hugh  Miller,  at  such 
length  that  the  writer  asked  him  in  pleasantry  if  he 
too  contemplated  the  shuffling  off  of  this  mortal  coil. 

Those  who  knew  him  most  intimately  derived  a 
stronger  impression  of  his  powers  Trom  his  conversa- 
tion in  his  happier  and  clearer  moods  than  from  his 
writings.  He  himself  regarded  all  that  he  had  done 


20  SKETCH  OF   THE   POET. 

.in  the  light  of  mere  experiments  and  exercises  in  liter- 
ature, preparatory  to  "a.  great  poem,"  which  he  hoped 
one  day  to  achieve,  which  should  make  his  name  im- 
mortal. There- were  some  to  whom  this  aspiration  did 
not  seem  chimerical,  and  who  believed  that  his  genius 
was  fully  equal  to  the  production  of  the  "epic"  which 
was  the  dream  of  his  ambition.  But — 

"  His  leaf  has  perished  in  the  green  ; 
And  while  we  live  beneath  the  sun, 
The  world  which  credits  what  is  done 
Is  blind  to  all  that  might  have  been." 


THE    FALCON. 


A   BALLAD. 


ALL  on  the  nor' west  Irish  coast 
The  fretting  waves  are  wild, 

And  stern  is  the  flinty  barrier, 
By  heedful  Nature  piled, 

To  guard — alas  !  in  vain  to  guard 
Her  fairest  ocean  child. 

II. 

On  sandy  beach,  in  sounding  coves, 
In  clefts  of  the  splintered  stone, 

The  bones  of  many  a  gay  good  ship 
Are  mouldering  unknown, 

Whose  crew  lies  under  the  yeasty  brine, 
Asleep,  withouten  moan. 

in. 

And  in  the  long  night-watches,  tars 
By  turns  their  tales  will  tell, 

Of  fearful  wrecks  and  strange  mishaps 
That  on  that  coast  befell ; 

Till  through  the  storm  the  listeners  hear 
The  spirit's  tempest-bell. 


22  THE  FALCON. 

IV. 

For  seldom  are  the  winds  asleep, 

Nor  oft  serene  the  day, 
On  the  dangerous  sea  that  foams  and  flows 

Around  the  watch-tower  gray 
That  waves  its  torch  of  warning  flame 

From  the  crags  of  lone  Torray. 


v. 

The  Falcon  was  a  smuggling  craft, 

And  sailed  by  Ralph  Duraine  : 
There  was  never  a  boat  with  white  wings  spread 

Flew  fleeter  o'er  the  main, 
Nor  a  stouter  heart  than  her  captain  bore 

Was  ever  risked  for  gain. 

VI. 

Yet  not  alone  for  gain  chose  he 

The  restless  wave  to  roam, 
But  the  great  deep  had  grown  to  him 

The  thing  the  heart  calls  home ; 
Far  less  he  loved  the  dew  on  flowers 

Than  the  dash  of  sparkling  foam. 

VII. 

Tales,  too,  were  whispered  round  at  times, 

By  those  he  ruled,  how  he 
Unwisely  had  bestowed  his  love 

On  one  of  high  degree, 
And  so — because  his  heart  was  lost — 

He  wandered  o'er  the  sea. 


THE   FALCON.  23 

VIII. 

Howe'er,  if  that  were  false  or  true, 

Or  if  his  soul  were  sore, 
The  changes  of  his  changeful  life 

Right  manfully  he  bore  ; 
Alike  he  loved  the  shining  wave 

And  the  tempest's  wildest  roar. 

IX. 

Alike  he  loved  the  sullen  glow 

That  o'er  the  surf  doth  glance 
When  storming  waves  at  midnight  deep 

On  Ireland's  coast  advance, 
And  the  sparkle  of  the  sun-bright  flood 
.  Along  the  shores  of  France. 

x. 

For,  oh,  forever  to  his  heart, 

And  to  his  glancing  eye, 
There  flowed  a  spring  of  secret  hope, — 

A  deep  and  hidden  joy, — 
That  all  the  change  of  storm  and  time 

Could  fearlessly  defy. 


XI. 

With  heedful  hand  he  held  apart 

The  low  limbs  of  the  tree, 
And  gazed  among  the  blossoming  shrubs 

With  glad  expectancy ; 
But  he  moaned,  and  his  aspect  sickened, 

Like  one  stabbed  suddenlie. 


24  THE   FALCON. 

XII. 

And  first  his  face  grew  deadly  white, 
And  he  reeled  as  he  would  fall ; 

Pain  shook  him,  as  an  earthquake  shakes 
A  mountain  vast  and  tall, 

Till  in  silence  he  leaned  languidly 
Against  the  garden  wall. 

XIII. 

But  this  passed  off:  he  gazed  again  ; 

The  ashy  paleness  fled ; 
Slowly  and  fearfully  his  eye 

And  cheek  grew  dusky  red, 
And  the  swoln  veins  like  knotted  cords 

Stood  out  on  his  dark  forehead. 

XIV. 

What  had  he  seen,  that  thus  could  move 

A  man  so  tried  as  he, — 
So  proved  in  perilous  scenes  by  land 

And  dangers  on  the  sea  ? 
Right  strange,  and  terrible,  I  ween, 

The  thing  he  dreads  must  be. 

xv. 

Yet  no ;  the  scene  is  soft  and  fair : 

The  throstle's  flute-like  tune 
Goes  up,  'twould  seem,  to  the  cloudy  swans 

That  float  so  far  aboon, 
And  the  garden  is  fragrant  and  blooming 

With  all  the  flowers  of  June. 


THE   FALCON.  25 


XVI. 
But  who  be  they — that  gay  gallant, 

And  she,  the  lady  fair — 
Who  wander  by  so  lovingly 

And  with  so  rapt  an  air? 
How  tenderly  he  clips  her  waist 

And  parts  her  raven  hair  ! 


XVII. 

Like  crouching  pard  he  backward  shrank, 
While  heedless  they  drew  near : 

Clenched  tightly  in  his  quivering  hand, 
The  blade  was  glancing  clear ; 

Ah,  Christ  !  there's  murder  on  that  brow, 
And  in  that  glance  of  fear ! 

XVIII. 

As  the  swoln  snake  who  lifts  her  head 
While  the  deadly  rattles  ring, 

As  the  hawk  whose  glance  of  tawny  fire 
Is  on  the  bittern's  wing, 

With  blazing  and  dilated  eye 
He  stood,  in  act  to  spring. 


XIX. 

In  the  soft  light  of  the  setting  sun, 

Along  the  rocks  he  strode ; 
His  stalwart  limbs  were  shivering, 

So  heavily  weighed  his  load, 
And  frequent  and  fearful  the  backward  glance 

He  cast  adown  the  road. 
3 

of  me.    l 


26  THE   FALCON. 

XX. 

Yet  upward  through  the  splintered  cliffs 

He  strove  and  toiled  along, 
Gripping  the  ledges  round  him 

With  a  nervous  grasp  and  strong, 
And  muttering  low ;  but  you  might  not  know 
If  the  words  he  uttered,  broken  and  slow, 

Were  of  prayer,  or  ban,  or  song. 

XXI. 

What  sparks  are  those,  as  he  wends  along, 
That  like  rubies  the  granite  stud, 

As  if  golden  ripples  remained  behind 
From  the  sunlight's  ebbing  flood  ? 

Alas  !  the  mystic  load  he  bears 
Is  tracking  his  steps  with  blood. 

XXII. 

And  on,  and  on — what  following  fears 

His  flying  steps  pursue  ? 
There  is  no  eye,  save  God's  above, 

To  mark  what  he  shall  do  ; 
No  storm  in  the  air,  no  cloud  in  the  sky, 

Nor  wave  on  the  ocean  blue. 

XXIII. 

He  reached  the  top  of  a  mighty  rock, 

With  the  gray  moss  overgrown ; 
Its  surface  vast,  in  the  fading  light, 

With  a  yellow  lustre  shone  ; 
And  he  paused  by  the  brink  of  a  frightful  chasm 

That  sank  through  the  solid  stone. 


THE   FALCON. 

XXIV. 

He  reached  the  top  of  a  mighty  rock ; 

He  paused,  and  gazed  around  ; 
Nothing  that  moved  could  his  eye  behold, 

In  his  ear  was  never  a  sound, — 
Save  a  low  moan,  that  softly  rose 

From  under  the  hollow  ground. 

XXV. 

This  was  the  waters  that  never  rest, 

The  ripples  that  ceaseless  rave ; 
For  the  chasm  led  into  a  drear  abyss, 

A  wild  and  wondrous  cave, 
That  looked  through  many  a  grand  wide  arch 

Athwart  the  changing  wave. 

XXVI. 

He  paused,  and  gazed ;  but  human  form 

Nor  mark  of  man  saw  he, 
Save  that  nigh  up  to  the  horizon 

Lay  a  ship  becalmed  at  sea : 
So  he  lifted  the  load  from  his  shoulders  broad, 

And  lowered  it  carefullie. 


XXVII. 

He  laid  it  down  ;  but  the  folding  cloth 
And  the  fastenings  burst  away; 

And  what  did  the  sudden  rent  disclose  ? 
Earth  lifeless,  damp,  and  gray. 

Ay  !  but  the  image  of  our  dear  Lord 
Was  stamped  upon  the  clay. 


27 


28  THE   FALCON. 

XXVIII. 

For  there  was  the  face,  like  a  young  May  moon 
Growing  pallid  in  strange  eclipse, 

And  the  hair  like  wandering  clouds  of  night, 
And  the  softly-parted  lips, 

That  even  in  death  were  like  the  rose 
Where  the  wild  bee  swings  and  sips. 

XXIX. 

And  the  arms,  and  neck,  and  swelling  breasts, 

As  white — and  cold — as  snow  ; 
For,  oh,  behold  !  beneath  the  left 

A  purple  stream  doth  flow  ! 
Never  again  shall  the  heart  within 

Be  troubled  by  joy  or  woe. 

XXX. 

Like  to  the  dreariest  winter  night 

The  face  of  the  stranger  grew ; 
He  clasped  the  corpse  in  his  sinewy  arms, 

And  his  breath  with  gasps  he  drew, 
While  he  madly  kissed  the  cold  white  brow 

And  the  cheek  of  deathly  hue. 

XXXI. 

"Oh,  God  !"  he  sobbed,  "oh,  Mary  dear " 

In  vain  he  strove  to  speak ; 
His  lips  with  writhing  but  prolonged 

A  husky  sound  and  weak ; 
But  the  hot  tears  in  torrents 

Flowed  down  his  olive  cheek. 


THE   FALCON.  2g 

XXXII. 

At  length,  with  many  a  stifled  moan 

And  many  a  frantic  kiss, 
He  bore  the  body  to  the  brink 

Of  the  yawning,  dark  abyss, 
And  dropt  it ;  but  his  glance  was  wild 

As  he  leaned  and  looked,  I  wis ! 

XXXIII. 

He  clasped  his  hands,  and  held  his  breath, 

The  sullen  plunge  to  hear  \ 
It  came,  with  a  rustling,  creeping  moan, 

That  deepened  and  drew  near 
Till  it  filled  his  ears,  and  brain,  and  heart 

With  a  choking  wave  of  fear. 

xxxiv. 

Then  with  a  cry  of  terror  he  dashed 

Adown  the  flinty  steep  ; 
His  moving  shadow  reached  the  ship, 

Far  out  on  the  glassy  deep, 
So  low  the  sun,  and  the  wide  sea 

So  quietly  asleep. 


xxxv. 

"Why  dost  thou  lean  with  so  sullen  an  air 

Above  the  waves?"  he  said; 
"  Or  what  dost  thou  mark  in  the  waters 

With  such  a  glance  of  dread  ? 
And  wherefore  has  thy  gladsome  eye 

Grown  heavy  and  gray  like  lead  ? 


30  THE   FALCON. 

XXXVI. 

"What  is  there  on  thy  heart,  old  friend, 

Thou  darest  not  tell  to  me  ? 
We  have  for  many  and  many  a  year 

Been  comrades  on  the  sea ; 
There  is  not  a  drop  in  my  bosom 

I  would  not  shed  for  thee, 

XXXVII. 

"  Not  in  my  inmost  heart  a  drop 

I  would  not  waste  like  rain. 
Speak  out,  then, — I  have  shared  thy  joy, 

And  well  may  part  thy  pain ; 
Or,  how  has  Caspar  Risdale  given 

Offense  to  Ralph  Duraine  ?" 

XXXVIII. 

Ralph  turned,  and  wrung  his  comrade's  hand 

"  Offense  to  me  !"  he  cried; 
"  So  help  me  God  as  there  ne'er  has  been 

A  friend  so  truly  tried  ! 
But,  Caspar,  ere  this  hour  had  come, 

That  one  of  us  had  died ! 

XXXIX. 

"I  have  a  tale — this  hand  no  more " 

He  paused,  and  turned  apart : 
He  would  not  that  his  friend  should  see 

His  agony  of  heart ; 
For  his  breath  came  thick,  and  to  his  eye 

The  sullen  drops  did  start. 


THE   FALCON. 

XL. 

Over  the  flood  he  leaned,  and  dashed 

Away  the  unbidden  tear, 
Then  turned,  and  said,  "He  ill  deserves 

Who  fails  his  friend  through  fear. 
This  is  the  tale  I  shrink  to  tell 

And  thou  shalt  freeze  to  hear. 


XLI. 

"  My  heart  was  wild,  my  brain  was  fire, 

My  blood  was  liquid  flame  ; 
I  had  no  feeling,  but  one  fierce, 

Delirious  impulse  came 
To  strike — and  drown  in  waves  of  blood 

The  things  that  wrought  my  shame. 

XLII. 

"  I  struck,  and  darkness  fell ;  O  friend, 

It  never  more  shall  rise  ! 
Ever  a  cloud  of  purple  gloom 

Is  floating  before  my  eyes, 
Whose  dusky  breast  is  crossed  and  veined 

By  a  thousand  gory  dyes ! 

XLIII. 

"At  dawn,  or  noon,  or  golden  eve, 

Or  at  the  lone  midnight, 
'Tis  ever  the  same  :   I  struggle  on, 

With  swimming  brain  and  sight, 
Through  a  flood  of  flame  and  blood, 

Towards  a  land  of  blight ! 


32  THE   FALCON. 

XLIV. 

''At  dawn,  or  noon,  or  golden  eve, 

Or  at  the  midnight  lone, 
A  phantom  ever  glides  before, 

With  many  a  broken  moan, 
Waving  a  torch,  and  gazing  back 

With  settled  eyes  of  stone  ! 

XLV. 

"  I  rave ;  but,  oh,  what  fiend  could  fill 

My  Mary's  gentle  breast, 
So  lovely — loving — so  beloved — 

So  blessing  and  so  blest, — 
And  yet  so  false — so  fair  and  false — 

To  one  so  long  caressed  ! 

XLVI. 

"  I  see  thy  cheek  is  white  with  fear, 
Thine  eyelid  damp  with  grief; 

I  too  have  wept ;  but  that  to  me 
Is  torture, — not  relief; 

I  better  endure  my  grim  despair 
Than  tears,  however  brief. 

XLVII. 

"I  have  not  told,  I  need  not  tell, 
The  place  of  her  red  sleep ; 

Enough,  'tis  where  myself  shall  rest 
When  I  cease  to  watch  and  weep, 

In  a  grave  that  none  can  bar  me  from, — 
The  bosom  of  the  deep. 


THE   FALCON.  33 


XL  VI II. 

"So,  Risdale,  since  for  many  a  year 
We  two  have  stemmed  the  main, 

And  the  Falcon  soon  must  fold  her  wings 
And  ne'er  swoop  forth  again, 

Leave  thou  the  luckless  bark,  before 
The  effort  shall  be  vain  ! 

XLIX. 

"And  I  will  say,  where'er  shall  drift 

This  helmless  hulk  of  mine, 
That  a  lealer  heart  to  an  ancient  friend 

Has  never  beat  than  thine  j 
And  a  better  seaman  in  hour  of  need 

Floats  not  on  the  foaming  brine." 


The  ship  bore  down,  the  coast  was  near, 

The  night  was  falling  dark, 
Yet  still  he  sternly  piled  the  sail 

Upon  the  laboring  bark, 
And  treated  with  scorn  and  wrath  each  hint 

The  dangerous  coast  to  mark. 

LI. 

"  Ho,  Risdale  !     Lo  !  our  friends  on  shore 
Their  watch-fires  kindle  bright ; 

Rejoice,  my  comrades  !  we  will  keep 
Our  watch  on  land  to-night." 

In  his  voice  was  a  strange,  unnatural  joy, 

In  his  eye  delirious  light. 
B* 


34 


THE   FALCON. 

LII. 

The  rock-bound  coast,  the  freshening  gale, 

The  sailors'  fears  awoke.. 
At  length  their  dread  grew  wild,  and  forth 

In  clamorous  tumult  broke ; 
But  Ralph  struck  down  the  mutineers 

With  fierce  and  ready  stroke. 

LIII. 

"Back,  villains  ! — have  you  yet  to  learn 

Who  rules  this  craft?"  quoth  he  ; 
"Shall  I  be  told  what  course  fits  best 

On  my  own  good  bark  at  sea? 
Now,  by  my  soul,  he  dies  who  dares 

Dispute  command  with  me!" 

LIV. 

"Ralph!  Ralph!  there  are  no  watch-fires  there! 

'Tis  madness  !"  Caspar  cried  ; 
"  Hark  thee,  old  friend  !   'twas  all  a  dream  !" 

Unheeding,  Ralph  replied, 
"  Lo !  yonder  by  the  blaze  she  stands, — 

My  bright,  expectant  bride. 

LV. 

"Oh,  I  was  mad  to  think  my  hand 

Could  harm  a  thing  so  fair, 
Or  dream  her  angel-heart  could  be 

Unclean  Dishonor's  lair. 
Oh,  mourn  not,  love  ! — sweet  Mary,  dear, 

Thy  lord  will  soon  be  there!" 


THE   FALCON. 
LVI. 

The  helmsman  fled.     Ralph  seized  the  wheel; 

Straight  on  the  coast  he  bore ; 
Already  thundered  on  the  ear 

The  wild  resounding  roar 
Of  the  white-plumed  assailing  waves 

Charging  the  serried  shore. 

LVII. 

"  To  boat !"  cried  Caspar  to  the  crew; 

And  the  boats  were  launched  amain. 
"  We  wait  for  thee  !"  the  tars  returned  ; 

But  they  shouted  all  in  vain, 
For  Caspar  Risdale  mutely  moved 

And  stood  by  Ralph  Duraine. 

LVIII. 

Then  were  the  lines  in  haste  cut  loose : 

The  Falcon  glanced  away; 
With  quivering  oars  the  seamen  bent 

Against  the  shoreward  spray : 
Fast  deepened  the  advancing  night 

And  paled  the  flying  day. 

LIX. 

But  suddenly  their  toil  they  stayed, 

To  mark  a  fearful  sight : 
Another  and  unnatural  dawn 

Rose  on  the  falling  night ; 
Each  headland  large  and  splintered  cliff 

Gleamed  with  a  ghastly  light. 


36  THE   FALCON. 

LX. 
It  might  be  but  the  lightning's  gleam 

From  tempest  gathering  o'er  ; 
It  might  be  but  the  glimmering  flash 

From  billows  vexed  and  hoar; 
But,  light  from  bolt's  or  breaker's  course, 
Or  radiance  from  a  weirder  source, 

It  streamed  along  the  shore. 

LXI. 
Pale  played  the  blaze  on  all  the  coast, 

But  chief  the  beams  shone  full 
Around  the  vast  basaltic  porch 

Of  the  cave  of  Instrahull ; 
Each  sailor  felt  his  heart  beat  low, 

With  a  heavy  sound  and  dull. 

LXII. 
And  while  they  gazed  on  the  glancing  rocks 

That  fenced  the  darksome  cave, 
A  shadow,  like  a  ship,  passed  in 

On  the  long,  dark-rolling  wave ; 
Then  on  the  troubled  waters  fell 

The  blackness  of  the  grave. 


LXIII. 
Lo  !  gazing  down  the  chasm,  you  mark, 

Wedged  into  the  cavern's  sides, 
The  frame  of  a  decaying  ship, 

That  moves  not  with  the  tides, 
But,  motionless,  on  her  bed  of  stone 

The  beating  waves  abides. 


ELVA.  37 

LXIV. 

Full  staunch  and  fleet  on  the  clear  wave  once 
Were  those  timbers,  wrenched  and  torn; 

Wild  is  the  tale  that  sailors  tell 
Of  that  sad  wreck  forlorn  ; 

But  it  happened  many  a  year  ago, 
Ere  you  and  I  were  born. 


ELVA. 

OLD  Elva's  walls  are  leveled  with  the  earth, 
And  weeds  are  green  where  glowed  the  blazing  hearth ; 
The  stately  trees  that  once  the  roof  topped  o'er 
Now  shed  their  brown  leaves  on  the  broken  floor ; 
Where  bloomed  the  rose  and  lily,  browse  the  deer, 
And  springs  the  oak  the  cherished  fruit-tree  near; 
Where  once  were  arbors,  now,  through  thickest  brake, 
Slow  winds,  in  many  a  fold,  the  glancing  snake. 
Time,  tempest,  violence,  and  dull  decay 
Have  worn  at  last  the  latest  marks  away ; 
One  tower  alone  stands  grimly  where  it  stood, 
Gray,  torn,  dismantled,  frowning  o'er  the  flood, 
The  dreariest  mark  those  mournful  ruins  bear 
That  human  forms  have  been,  but  are  not  there. 

Yet,  Elva,  once  with  thee  it  was  not  so : 
Ere  ruthless  hearts  and  hands  had  wrought  thee  woe, 
Thy  long-dim  halls  with  happiness  were  rife, 
And  glad  hearts  to  thy  solitudes  gave  life. 

4 


3S  ELVA. 

And  though  no  gladsome  voice  nor  glancing  oar 
Now  stirs  the  echoes  on  the  lake's  green  shore, 
That  lake  hath  borne  full  many  a  bark  where  sate 
Forms  warm  with  love,  and  hearts  with  hope  elate, 
And  young  bright  eyes  have  bent  with  starry  gleam 
Above  the  mazy  windings  of  thy  stream. 
From  the  dark  turret,  where  the  sweet  bells  swung, 
All  winged  with  joy,  the  wedding  peals  have  rung, 
While  Mirth,  with  kindling  glance  and  rosy  smile, 
Kissed  each  young  cheek  and  blessed  each  heart  the 

while, 

And  Song  sat,  silver-tongued,  and  filled  with  sound 
Those  echoing  walls,  now  sadly  scattered  round  ! 
Oh,  list  the  lowly  and  the  simple  lay 
The  minstrel  sings  of  Elva's  earlier  day. 


Old  Elva's  halls  have  many  a  guest  to-night, 
Yet  the  lamps  shed  not  their  accustomed  light ; 
Nor  music's  strain  nor  garnished  feast  are  there, 
But  all  is  sentineled  by  anxious  care. 
For  they  who  rest  within,  in  act  and  word, 
Are  leagued  in  hostile  guise  against  their  lord ; 
And  much  they  dare  who  aid  with  kindly  hand 
The  attainted  members  of  that  patriot  band, — 
Men  who  have  cast  with  daring  hands  aside 
The  cankering  chains  of  feudal  pomp  and  pride, 
And,  roused  by  wrongs  long  suffered,  long  forgiven, 
Will  now  be  free,  if  not  on  earth,  in  heaven. 
Worn  by  long  marching,  wearied,  dark  with  soil, — 
But  not  one  fiery  bosom  tamed  by  toil, — 
On  the  hard  floor  their  limbs  they  careless  lay, 
And  wait,  their  arms  beside,  th'  approaching  day, — 


ELVA.  39 

Small  thought  have  they  of  aught  of  daintier  fare, — 
Few  nights,  I  ween,  for  them  such  couch  prepare. 


n. 

As  one  who  watched  his  slumbering  band  to  guard, 

Their  chieftain,  Gilbert,  slowly  paced  the  sward  ; 

His  ebon  locks  thrown  back,  to  catch  the  breeze, 

Cooled  by  the  lake  and  scented  by  the  trees, 

His  small  hand  resting  on  his  dagger's  hilt, 

Whose  blade  may  yet  retain  its  last  red  gilt, 

With  careful  gaze  he  scans  the  darkening  scene, 

Marks  each  faint  motion  of  the  foliage  green, 

Or  turns  at  times  his  flashing  full  gray  eye 

To  where  the  stars  hang  brightening  o'er  the  sky. 

Why  waits  he  here,  when  all  the  rest  are  deep 

In  the  void  realms  of  weird,  mysterious  sleep  ? 

What  thought,  what  scene  doth  hope  or  memory  trace, 

Which  gilds  and  glooms  alternately  his  face  ? 

Dreams  he  of  glory  ?  of  revenge  or  love  ? 

Or  seek  his  eyes  those  silent  suns  above, 

With  strange,  deep  yearnings  for  the  mystic  lore 

The  Eastern  Magi  proudly  held  of  yore, 

When  stars  were  gods,  and  he  who  bent  the  knee 

To  their  far  thrones  the  future  there  might  see? 

Or  why  hath  Power  so  soon  her  mantle  flung 

On  one  so  fair,  so  slender,  and  so  young? 

in. 

Vain  questions  all !     But  ask  the  bold  of  deed, 
Who  scarce  can  follow  where  he  dares  to  lead, 
Whose  form  is  foremost  in  the  reeling  fight  ? 
Whose  arm  is  last  to  stay,  and  first  to  smite  ? 


40  EL  VA. 

Whose  voice  still  rings  the  wavering  ranks  to  cheer  ? 
Whose  counsel  still  partakes  of  aught  but  fear  ? 
Whose  face,  when  all  was  chill  with  blank  despair, 
Ne'er  yet  has  worn  one  shade  that  looked  like  care? 
Or  whose  the  hand,  when  some  well-won  success 
Might  sure  have  named  revenge  a  just  redress, 
Was  still  most  prompt  the  conquered  foe  to  save  ? 
All  his, — the  young — the  beautiful — the  brave  ! 
He  who  had  lightly  held  that  slender  hand 
Would  scarce  have  scorned    it   when  it  grasped   the 

brand, 

And  he  who  marked  at  rest  that  eye  and  cheek, 
In  war  so  wild,  in  peace  so  soft  and  meek, 
Might  well  have  wondered  whence  the  spirit  rose, 
So  dear  to  friends,  so  terrible  to  foes ! 

IV. 

He  came, — they  knew  not  whence, — nor  much  they 

cared  ; 

Yet  seemed  he  one  in  luxury  lapped  and  reared ; 
Some    hideous   wrong   perchance,   they  thought,    had 

stung 

Into  rebellion  one  so  soft  and  young. 
A  home  laid  desolate, — a  father  slain, — 
Or  a  strong  passion  long  pursued  in  vain. 
But  all  was  wild  surmise ;  they  questioned  not, 
And  in  the  present  soon  the  past  forgot. 
So  mild  his  face,  serene  and  calmly  bright, 
Like  a  sweet  landscape  in  the  morning  light, 
You  might  not  guess  what  passions  lurked  apart 
In  the  dim  caverns  of  his  hidden  heart ; 
And  in  his  eye  gleamed  such  uncertain  ray, 
Full  rarely  sad,  and  still  more  rarely  gay, 


EL  VA.  41 

You  ne'er  could  tell  if  joy  or  rage  would  speak 
In  the  next  moment  from  his  changing  cheek. 
If,  wreathed  in  smiles,  his  beaming  features  shone 
Like  a  breeze-dimpled  streamlet  in  the  sun, 
In  the  next  hour,  if  anger  fired  his  eye, 
It  struck  like  lightning  from  a  cloudless  sky. 
Still  in  his  glance,  and  in  his  lifted  hand, 
Was   that  which  showed   the  soul    that  would    com- 
mand; 

It  might  be  art,  or  nature, — none  could  tell ; 
But  if  a  mask,  he  wore  it  rarely  well. 

v. 

The  western  clouds  have  lost  their  purple  dye ; 
A  silver  radiance  tints  the  eastern  sky ; 
That  dream-like  glory  tells  the  eye  that  soon 
Above  the  hills  shall  sail  the  summer  moon. 
And  Gilbert  passed  within  that  silent  hall, 
Lit  by  a  dim  lamp  trembling  from  the  wall ; 
His  steps  he  turned,  by  that  uncertain  ray, 
Where,  stretched  along,  his  sleeping  warriors  lay. 
'Twas  a  strange  sight;  each  swart  and  stalwart  form, 
So  scarred  and  seared  by  warfare  and  by  storm, 
Then  seemingly  lay  lapped  in  such  sweet  rest 
As  lulls  the  infant  on  its  mother's  breast. 
But  when  the  form  in  deepest  trance  lies  still, 
Most  wildly  wakes  the  fancy  and  the  will ; 
And  much  of  tumult  hushed,  and  passion  stern, 
Who  watched  the  unconscious  sleepers  might  discern. 
Here  one,  whose  quivering  eyelids  shun  the  light, 
Seems  struggling  with  some  phantom  child  of  night. 
Yon  grimly  smiling  form  we  well  may  guess 
In  dreams  anticipates  revenge,  redress  ! 

4* 


ELVA. 


And  there  be  fingers  wandering  to  the  brand, 
And  the  sheathed  dagger  meets  the  unconscious  hand ; 
And  some  there  be  whose  quick  convulsive  clasp 
The  long  brown  rifle  strains  with  iron  grasp. 


VI. 

Where  through  the  window  opening  o'er  the  glade 

The  shivering  winds  of  night  an  entrance  made, 

There  was  an  old  man, — old  in  years  and  care, — 

With  wrinkled  brow  and  scant  and  frosty  hair, 

Stretched  out  in  sleep.    The  earliest  moonbeams  played 

On  the  hard  pillow  where  his  cheek  was  laid, 

And  with  her  spirit  hand  the  wind  of  night 

Lifted  the  thin  locks  from  his  temples  white. 

Such  ghastly  pallor  o'er  the  features  spread, 

So  marble  cold  appeared  the  silent  head, 

That  one  might  start,  despite  the  deep-drawn  breath, 

At  life  that  looked  so  fearfully  like  death. 

And  Gilbert  gazed,  and,  as  he  gazed,  a  change 

Passed  o'er  those  features, — beautiful,  but  strange. — 

Such  magic  change  as  one  might  guess  would  be 

When  bursts  the  morning  o'er  a  moonlit  sea; 

His  brow  relaxed,  his  thin  lips  dropped  apart, 

More  boldly  heaved  his  breast  and  leaped  his  heart, 

And  a  faint  smile,  the  ghost  of  gladness  gone, 

Played  round  his  mouth,  like  radiance  round  the  sun ; 

Now  sinks  his  breathing  indistinct  and  low; 

Hark  !   from  his  lips  unmeaning  murmurs  flow. 

He  speaks  :    "Dear  father — mother."     Heaven  above! 

That  old  man  dreams  of  childhood's  guiltless  love. 

The  daylight  shines  not  on  a  fiercer  brow, 

A  fiercer  eye,  a  haughtier  lip, — and  now, 


ELVA.  43 

Serenely,  sweetly,  there,  a  sinless  boy, 
He  smiles  in  slumber  o'er  a  childish  joy. 
To  Gilbert's  eyes  these  words  recalled  a  scene 
That,  ah  !  no  more  for  Gilbert  shall  be  green ; 
And  at  those  syllables  so  lightly  spoke 
Long-channeled  fountains  in  his  bosom  broke ; 
Along  his  cheeks"  faint  flushes  went  and  came, 
As  o'er  an  evening  cloud  the  lightnings  flame ; 
And  his  frame  thrilled  and  trembled,  as  the  trees 
All  quivering  bend  them  to  the  autumn  breeze. 
Hell  has  no  fiend  like  Memory,  when  she  brings 
Repentance  without  hope,  remorse's  stings, 
And  a  long  file  of  days  in  sable  weeds, 
Mourning  and  weeping  over  past  misdeeds. 
Like  a  pale  ghost  that  shuns  the  rising  day, 
Strode  Gilbert  fast,  but  stealthily,  away, 
Nor  paused  he  till  again  the  dewy  sod, 
With  lighter  heart  and  firmer  step,  he  trod. 


VII. 

Like  warriors  of  the  knightly  times  of  old, 
All  sheathed  in  armor  rough  with  fretted  gold, 
So  seem  the  trees  round  Elva's  mansion  white, 
So  glance  their  wet  leaves  in  the  silver  light. 
Still  Gilbert  watches, — still  his  eyelids  keep 
At  bay  the  approaches  of  deceitful  sleep. 
The  sun  was  sinking  when  his  watch  begun, 
Now  far  beneath  him  rolls  the  unwearied  sun ; 
The  moon,  whose  glory  woke  a  fainter  day 
When  on  the  hill-tops  died  the  gold  away, 
Now  from  mid-heaven,  with  face  serene,  looks  down 
On  lake,  and  stream,  and  Elva's  forest  brown. 


44 


ELVA. 


He  leaned  against  a  tree,  whose  trunk  around 
With  hoary  moss  and  ivy  green  was  bound; 
His  flashing  eyes  were  turned  upon  a  scroll 
Whose  pictured  words  drew  echoes  from  his  soul: 
As  the  ^Eolian  harp,  by  night-winds  stirred, 
By  turns  is  silent  or  by  snatches  heard, 
So,  wildly  sweet,  in  fitful  fragments  rung 
The  syllables,  unconscious,  from  his  tongue. 

THE    LETTER. 

Sweet  land  of  shadows, — dear,  delightful  shore, — 
Oh,  could  I  seek  thee,  to  return  no  more  ! 
What  dreams  of  joy  each  misty  valley  fills ! 
What  scented  blossoms  fringe  the  sparkling  rills  ! 
What  angel  visions  float  through  rainbow  skies, 
Where,  rich  and  warm,  a  sunless  glory  lies ! 
There,  'mid  the  blossoms,  love  lies  stretched  along, 
And  fills  the  air  with  passion  and  with  song, 
And  dancing  waves  below,  and  winds  above, 
Seem  warm  with  kisses  from  the  lips  of  love. 
Ah,  Gilbert !  shall  our  spirits  haunt  no  more 
Those  bowers  of  love  on  fancy's  airy  shore? 


Fierce  as  the  waves  of  ocean  lashed  to  strife, 
Wild  as  the  winds  that  wake  them  into  life, 
Through  my  sore  heart  the  crimson  billows  roll, 
And  rush  the  thoughts  tumultuous  o'er  my  soul, 
WThen  to  my  memory's  eye  returns  that  day 
They  tore  thee  bleeding  from  my  heart  away. 
Oh,  cursed,  yet  blest,  all  wild  with  joy  and  pain, 
How  cling  those  moments  to  my  tortured  brain  ! 


EL  VA.  45 

The  last  embrace  my  bosom  answers  still, 
Still  to  that  kiss  my  lips  responsive  thrill ; 
Again  mine  arms  are  wildly  round  thee  flung, 
I  drink  each  accent  falling  from  thy  tongue ; 
Again,  again,  O  God  !  the  steel  gleams  bright, 
As  speeds  the  deadly  blow  before  my  sight ; 
I  see  the  warm  blood  gushing  from  thy  breast, 
But  grim  despair  and  darkness  hold  the  rest. 


High  hangs  that  blade  above  my  chamber-door ; 
The  fiend  that  from  my  heart  its  idol  tore 
Before  my  gaze  displays  the  unwiped  steel, 
And  feeds  his  vengeance  on  the  pangs  I  feel. 
There  must  I  see,  each  morning's  life  begun, 
Thy  best  blood  rusting  in  the  rising  sun  ; 
By  night,  by  night,  whene'er  the  moonbeams  pale 
Have  wreathed  the  chamber  in  their  mystic  veil, 
Through  the  dim  haze,  like  spectral  lamp,  it  gleams, 
Or  fills  with  baleful  light  my  midnight  dreams. 
From  hideous  sleep,  with  quivering  limbs,  I  start, — 
That  blade  seems  rusting  in  my  throbbing  heart ; 
Like  a  red  cloud  it  shuts  the  light  away, 
And  glooms  with  horror  all  the  joys  of  day. 

******* 

I  know  thou  didst  not  die, — this  much  I  know 
From  him  who,  wert  thou  dead,  were  still  thy  foe ; 
I  know  thy  dwelling,  in  the  deep  recess 
Of  the  greenwood's  remotest  wilderness ; 
And  he  can  tell,  who  bears  this  scroll  from  me, 
How  my  heart  bounded  at  the  thought  of  thee. 
Fame  speaks  thee  fierce  of  heart,  of  deadly  hand, 
The  outlawed  leader  of  an  outlawed  band  ; 


46  EL  VA. 

I  heed  not  that;  I  only  joy  to  hear 
Thy  name  as  one  the  boldest  hearts  must  fear ; 
Would  only  pray  that  fate  would  kindly  twine, 
In  life  or  death,  my  destiny  with  thine. 
Alas  !  how  vain  !  my  love,  my  spirit's  pride, 
A  hunted  lion,  roves  the  mountain  side. 

******* 
There  is  a  fairy  spot,  thou  knowest  it  well, 
By  Elva's  stream,  in  Elva's  deepest  dell, 
Where  oaks  and  birches  bend  their  heads  above, 
And  flowering  shrubs  beneath  are  thickly  wove, 
While  through  the  boughs,  in  many  a  broken  beam, 
Dances  the  sunlight  on  the  sparkling  stream; 
There,  when  my  guardian's  eye  I  can  elude, 
I  sometimes  steal,  and  sit  with  solitude ; 
But  all  too  dreadful  is  the  contrast  there, 
Where  hope  lies  tombed  and  guarded  by  despair, 
To  the  dear  joys,  all  passionate  and  wild, 
With  which  we  once  the  passing  hours  beguiled. 
Oh,  there  be  times  when  nature's  every  voice, 
All  turned  in  one  direction,  sing,  "Rejoice  !" 
When  rolls  the  sun  refulgently  away, 
And  strives  the  red  moon  with  the  dying  day, 
When  golden  tints  and  misty  gleams  of  snow 
Have  met  and  mingled  in  the  vale  below, 
When  winds  and  waters,  sweetly  toned  and  clear, 
In  melting  murmurs  strike  the  raptured  ear ; 
The  rippling  sound  by  waving  branches  made, 
The  varying  cadence  of  the  far  cascade, 
Now  high,  now  low,  as  sweeps  the  breeze  along, 
Now  calmly  faint,  now  tremulously  strong ; 
There  is  a  spirit  thrills  the  sense,  the  soul, 
Till  the  full  heart  spurns  reason's  cold  control, 


EL  VA.  47 

Steeps  anxious  care  and  coward  fear  in  sleep, 

And  melts  the  bosom  into  raptures  deep ! 

Such  have  we  known  full  oft  in  that  lone  dell, 

How  dear,  how  dear  the  thought,  our  hearts  can  tell ! 


Like  a  green  island  poised  on  ocean's  brim, 

Seem  these  lost  scenes  in  distance  faint  and  dim ; 

The  swift,  deep  gulf  my  helmless  bark  floats  o'er 

Still  bears  me  farther  from  that  lovely  shore ; 

I  stretch  my  arms,  I  shriek,  but  dark  and  strong 

Rolls  the  wi)d  flood  of  destiny  along. 

Oh,  there  are  hours  of  rapture  buried  there 

That  envying  angels  might  have  longed  to  share ! 

Dear  hours  of  love  !  delusive,  if  thou  wilt, 

But  wild  with  passion, — stained  perchance  with  guilt; 

Yet  would  I  peril,  for  such  joys  again, 

Life — time — eternity ;  but  all  is  vain. 

******* 

Farewell !     I  ask  thee  not  if  day  by  day 
Thy  heart  hath  cast  its  young  romance  away ; 
I  could  not  doubt  thy  truth, — I  ask  thee  not 
If  Clara' 's  image  be  at  last  forgot ; 
Oh,  love  like  ours,  impetuous,  wild,  and  high, 
Drinks  at  one  draught  the  spirit's  fountain  dry ! 
Farewell ! — it  chills  my  blood,  that  lonely  word  ; 
My  heart  is  sinking  like  a  wounded  bird  ; 
The  sky  that  once  with  gladness  lit  my  life 
Is  dull  with  gloom  and  dissolute  with  strife  ; 
Yet  still,  methinks,  there  dimly  shines  afar, 
Through  the  rent  clouds,  one  little  lonely  star, — 
The  star  of  Hope.     I  suffer  not  in  vain 
If  life  returns  thee  to  my  arms  again." 


48  EL  VA. 

He  pauses, — starts.     What  sees  he  in  the  brake  ? 
What  stealthy  steps  the  slumbering  echoes  wake  ? 
"  Stand,  on  thy  life  1"     His  knife  hath  left  its  sheath, 
And  the  poised  pistol  grimly  threatens  death. 
No  answer  comes;  but  light  as  forest  fawn 
Glides  a  slight  female  o'er  the  dewy  lawn. 
Why  tempts  that  tender  form  the  midnight  air? 
What  makes  she  here,  so  fragile  and  so  fair  ? 
Had  the  earth  yawned,  and  from  the  shades  below 
A  demon  sprung,  it  had  not  moved  him  so. 
To  earth  the  deadly  weapons  wild  he  dashed ; 
With  a  strange  light  his  eyes  dilated — flashed. 
"  Great  God,  'tis  she  !"     The  accents  trembling  hung 
On  his  pale  lips,  when  to  his  breast  she  sprung  ; 
Oh,  to  that  moment  what  were  years  of  pain  ? 
For  young  life's  glory  has  returned  again  ! 
Nor  words  nor  murmur  break  the  night's  profound; 
Thus  still  the  full  heart  robs  the  lips  of  sound, 
And,  save  the  glances  from  their  eyes  that  shoot, 
There  is  no  sign, — for  happiness  is  mute. 


Oh,  she  was  beautiful,  that  lady  fair, 

Though  pale  her  seeming  in  the  midnight  air ; 

The  slenderest  tendrils  of  the  clasping  vine 

Less  rarely  than  her  raven  ringlets  twine ; 

The  snowiest  cloud  that  e'er  the  moon  looked  on 

Than  her  white  forehead  less  serenely  shone ; 

The  wavy  billows  in  the  morning  light, 

Now  tinged  with  red,  now  melting  back  to  white, 

Have  less  of  heaven's  serenest  dyes  than  wore 

That  cheek,  the  tresses  dankly  clustered  o'er. 


ELVA. 


49 


With  trembling  hand  she  dashed  the  locks  away, 
And  from  her  damp  brow  swept  the  glittering  spray : 

"  And  have  we  met,  and  must  we  part  ? — alas  ! 
Must  this  long-looked-for  bliss  so  quickly  pass? 
Patience,  my  heart !"     And  then  the  accents  broke 
In  calmer  tones,  though  hurriedly  she  spoke : 

"  Gilbert,  within  Gleneden's  halls  to-night 
Are  armed  men  that  counsel  hold  of  fight; 
In  ruthless  hands  are  weapons  bared  for  strife. 
I  scarce  need  tell  thee  what  they  seek, — thy  life. 
'Tis  known  to-night  in  Elva  camps  thy  host, 
Few,  worn,  asleep, — unarmed  and  weak  the  post, — 
Thus  ran  their  words ;  and  much  they  talked  of  gold, 
And  chieftains  by  repentant  rebels  sold. 
Unseen  myself,  I  heard  their  counsel ;  fear 
Has  winged  my  steps  to  warn  thee, — I  am  here." 

Kindly  he  smiled:     "And   didst   thou  dare,   dear 

maid, 

For  one  like  me,  the  midnight  forest  shade  ? 
Thy  robes  are  torn  and  wet,  thy  parched  lips  dry, 
And  a  wild  fire  is  glancing  in  thine  eye, — 
Poor  trembling  heart !"     And  closer  still  he  pressed 
The  exhausted  maiden  to  his  throbbing  breast. 
"  Ten  thousand  curses  strike  the  coward  hind 
Who  haunts  thee  thus  with  cruelty  refined  ! 
Alas,  my  Clara !  I  could  weep  for  thee, 
But  tears  have  long  been  strangers  unto  me. 
But  let  him  come," — a  scornful  tone  he  took, 
Darkened  his  brow,  and  deadly  grew  his  look, — 
"  'Tis  time  this  hand  had  wreaked  its  treasured  wrong, 
And  vengeance  has  delayed  her  sweets  too  long ; 
Twice  have  I  crossed  him  when  the  fight  was  red, 
But  fate  befriended  still  his  guilty  head. 
c  5 


50  EL  VA. 

Ay  !  let  him  come  ;  my  band,  in  one  short  hour, 
Shall  equal  his,  whate'er  may  be  his  power; 
For,  long  before  the  hills  shall  hail  the  dawn, 
Five  hundred  blades  shall  glance  on  Elva's  lawn  ; 
Even  now,  methinks,  the  bugles  faint  I  hear 
Which  warn  their  leaders  that  his  troops  draw  near. 
But  thou,  my  gentle  dove,  thou  ill  mayst  brook 
On  scenes  of  battle  and  of  blood  to  look  ! 
Small  refuge  can  these  feeble  walls  afford 
From  war's  rude  shocks,  the  musket  and  the  sword." 
Fierce  flashed  her  eye,  and  proudly  rose  her  head : 
"Think  not  my  woman's  heart  so  weak,"  she  said. 
"  No!  from  this  hour,  whatever  fate  betide, 
My  post  is  ever  by  my  Gilbert's  side. 
Mine  were  thy  wrongs,  my  vengeance  shall  be  thine ; 
Through  danger  or  success  thy  path  be  mine  !" 
"  A  thousand  thanks,  my  Clara,  for  that  word  ! 
Thy   voice    has    nerved    my    heart,    has    edged    my 

sword  ! 

Nor  deem  thy  lover  weak  :   this  peril  past, 
On  different  scenes  thine  eyes  thou  soon  shalt  cast, 
For  in  these  wars  my  hand  shall  carve  a  name 
Whose  sheen  shall  dim  my  sires'  ancestral  fame, — 
Enduring  as  the  stars;  and  thou  shalt  be 
First  in  a  land  where  every  heart  is  free." 
Quick  he  breaks  off,  for,  glancing  through  the  trees, 
Rank  after  rank  of  bayonets  bright  he  sees. 
"  Clara,  they  come  ! — the  blood-hounds  will  not  wait 
The  morning  light,  so  eager  burns  their  hate ; 
'Tis  fearful  odds,  my  Clara.     But  away : 
Awhile  at  least  we'll  hold  their  ranks  at  bay." 
Around  her  slender  waist  his  arm  he  flung, 
And  lightly  through  the  open  door  he  sprung. 


ELVA.  51 

Noiseless  behind  the  heavy  portal  turns, 
Before  him  still  that  glimmering  taper  burns. 
He  reached  the  centre  of  that  chamber  wide, 
Where  slumber  still  his  warriors  side  by  side : 
"  Now  to  your  chamber  haste,  my  Clara,  haste, 
For  life  hangs  on  each  moment  that  we  waste  !" 

IX. 

He  watched  her  glide  reluctant  from  the  hall, 

Then  snatched  an  unsheathed  sabre  from  the  wall, 

One  instant's  glance  around  the  chamber  cast, 

Where  sleep  so  many  that  have  slept  their  last : 

"  Rouse  ye,  my  mates  !"     Upspringing  at  the  sound, 

From  their  rough  couch  the  startled  warriors  bound. 

Noiseless  they  start,  and  all  prepared  they  stand ; 

Glances  the  knife,  and  shines  the  ready  brand ; 

Nor  sign  nor  motion  show  they  of  surprise, 

But  mutely  turn  on  Gilbert  their  bright  eyes. 

He  stands  their  centre ;  round  his  form  they  wheel, 

A  dusky  phalanx  lit  by  gleams  of  steel. 

Serene,  but  pale  as  sculptured  marble  stone 

His  cheek,  while  from  his  eyes  there  coldly  shone 

A  wintry  starlight :  well  'tis  understood 

That  freezing  glance  prophetic  speaks  of  blood. 

Proud  he  looks  round,  yet  struggling  with  his  pride 

Was  something  of  regret  he  chose  to  hide. 

And  low,  though  resolute,  those  accents  clear 

That  fired  the  listener's  heart  and  thrilled  his  ear: 

11  Comrades  and  friends, — my  trusty,  fearless  few, 

'Still  to  yourselves  and  injured  freedom  true, — 

Our  foes  are  here ;  we  are  at  last  beset : 

Be  calm,  be  firm,  and  we  shall  foil  them  yet. 


5  2  ELVA. 

They  think  us  helpless,  hopeless,  all  undone, 

And  scorn  their  conquest  as  too  easy  won ; 

But,  can  we  hold  our  post,  ere  morn  be  gray 

We'll  change  their  triumph  into  blank  dismay. 

Yet — for  I  scorn  the  hope  one  hour  may  blast, 

Nor  speak  through  fear — this  fight  may  be  our  last ; 

If  one  half-hour  unmoved  we  hold  our  post, 

All  shall  be  well ;  if  broken,  all  is  lost. 

So,  friends,  dear  friends,  ere  yet  this  cast  we  dare, 

This  closing  game  'twixt  fortune  and  despair, 

One  friendly  grasp,  not  one  regretful  sigh : 

We  have  been  true,  and  as  we've  lived  we'll  die. 

Now,  then,  all's  well;  be  resolute — be  dumb; 

Let  your  good  rifles  speak — Ah,  hark !  they  come  !" 

x. 

Flew  from  its  massive  hinge  the  shattered  door, 
The  splintered  fragments  strewed  the  marble  floor; 
Wild    through   the  breach,   like  flashing  waves,   they 

rolled, 

All  plumed  and  armed,  and  glittering  o'er  with  gold. 
Up  to  the  aim  rose  Gilbert's  rifles  all, 
Rung  the  report,  and  sped  the  deadly  ball. 
The  exulting  shout  that  swelled  the  foeman's  breath 
Is  quenched  in  yells  of  anguish  and  of  death. 
Once  more  they  crowd, — once  more  the  volley  came  ; 
They  sink  like  withered  grass  that  feels  the  flame ; 
A  ghastly  pile  of  quivering  limbs  and  gore 
Bars  up  the  way  and  chokes  the  narrow  door. 
But,  fast  and  thick,  on  numbers  numbers  press, 
And  death  that  thins  seems  scarce  to  leave  them  less, 
Till  in  one  mass,  confused  and  fierce,  they  close ; 
Shot  answers  shot,  and  blows  are  met  by  blows. 


ELVA. 


53 


Useless  the  rifle  now  in  that  red  strife ; 

Swings  the  short  sword,  and  speeds  the  gory  knife; 

The  sulphurous  smoke  hangs  o'er  them  like  a  pall, 

While  reeling  round  they  struggle,  strike,  and  fall. 

Foremost  of  all,  conspicuous,  Gilbert  stood, 

His  whirling  sabre  dripping  red  with  blood  ; 

Gleams  his  gray  eye,  his  lordly  brow  is  bare, 

In  tangled  masses  falls  his  raven  hair. 

Like  weeds  they  fall  where'er  his  weapon's  swept, 

Still  round  his  form  a  vacant  ring  he  kept. 

Where  his  blade  gleams  they  sink  with  quivering  cry, 

And  still,  through  all,  one  plume  attracts  his  eye. 

As  through  wild  waves  the  vessel  holds  her  course 

Straight  for  the  port,  so  through  the  serried  force 

He  cleaves  his  way ;  as  winds  and  waves  will  turn 

The  bark  aside  that  struggles  to  her  bourn, 

So  still  opposing  numbers  bar  his  way, 

And  rush  between  the  avenger  and  his  prey. 

XI. 

Borne  back — repulsed — defeated — conquered — no  ! 
Not  while  one  wearied  arm  can  strike  a  blow ! 
Stand  the  lorn  few,  and  deeply  draw  their  breath 
For  one  last  stroke,  one  struggle  more  with  death. 
As  sometimes,  when  the  tempest  wildest  raves, 
Comes  a  short  lull  along  the  flashing  waves, 
So  seemed  that  pause  in  havoc's  mad  career, 
So  deep  you  almost  might  their  breathing  hear. 
Then,  too, — oh,  contrast  strange  ! — who  looked  might 

see 

The  moonlight  sleeping  on  the  hill's  green  lea; 
The  trees  where  'mid  the  boughs  the  wild-bird  swings, 
And,  rocked  in  slumber,  folds  her  wearied  wings; 


54  ELVA. 

The  jeweled  grass,  the  flower  whose  sun-parched  lip 

Fresh  health  and  beauty  from  the  night  may  sip; 

The  rimpling  streams  that  feed,  with  ceaseless  flow, 

The  pulseless  bosom  of  the  lake  below, 

Where,  glassed  between  long  shadows  dusk  and  brown, 

In  lines  of  light  the  mirrored  skies  sweep  down. 

Oh,  gazing  on  such  scenes,  how  sweetly  come 

O'er  the  full  soul  dear  memories  of  home  ! 

And  were  but  griefs  forgot,  and  faults  past  given, 

The    heart    might    dream    this   earth    should    yet   be 

heaven ! 

All  this  the  long  wide  window  could  disclose, 
With  frame  festooned  by  many  a  folded  rose ; 
But  not  for  eyes  like  theirs  that  gentle  sight, — 
So  calm,  so  sweet,  so  beautiful,  so  bright. 


Gilbert  looked  round  ;  oh  !  now  no  more  they  turn, 

With  answering  glances,  to  his  looks  that  burn  ; 

Wounded  and  bleeding,  scarce  the  nerveless  hand 

Can  now  sustain  the  deeply  reddened  brand ; 

Yet,  half  unconscious,  round  his  form  they  close, — 

Alas !  weak  fence  are  they  from  savage  foes. 

Around  the  room  his  gaze  uncertain  strayed, 

Till  on  the  chamber-door  where  Clara  stayed 

It  rested  for  a  moment.     In  his  heart 

Some  half- forbidden  purpose  seemed  to  start ; 

But  in  that  moment,  when  suspended  strife 

Gave  time  for  thoughts  to  rise  of  death  and  life, 

Stepped  from  the  opposing  ranks  Gleneden's  chief, 

And  thus  in  haughty  tones  demanded  brief: 

"  Now,  Gilbert,  yield  ;  thy  short  success  is  past ; 

Thy  king  compels  thy  rebel  knee  at  last. 


ELVA. 


55 


Justice  or  mercy,  choose  thee  which !  we  deal, — 
Thy  monarch's  pardon,  or  his  vengeful  steel  !" 
Flashed  Gilbert's  eye,  and  curled  his  lip  with  scorn : 
"  Remorseless  caitiff,  to  thy  land  forsworn, 
False  to  all  ties,  in  every  treason  dyed, 
Here,  with  thy  country's  fellest  foes  allied, 
Barest  thou  to  brand  me  rebel  ?     Thank  thy  fear, 
And  thy  less  guilty  tools  that  guard  thee  here, 
That  long  ere  now  my  hand  has  not  repaid 
My  wrongs,  and  hers,  and  my  poor  land  betrayed  ! 
Thy  mercies,  too  !     Ay,  prate  of  such  to  me  ! 
I  know  them  well, — the  halter  and  the  tree  ! 

Thou,  loathed  by  all, — by  every  heart  accursed 

But  words  are  idle, — do  thy  best,  or  worst ! 

Dear  friends,  once  more,  one  closing  stroke  with  me 

For  home — for  Liberty  ! — we  will  be  free  !" 

Hark  !  was't  a  wandering  echo  that  brought  back 

That  shout  returning  on  its  airy  track? 

Do  my  ears  mock  me  ? — heard  I  not  the  sound 

Of  trampling  hoofs  that  shake  the  solid  ground  ? 

Wildly  they  meet, — that  final  strife  shall  close 

On  none  but  victors  and  their  silent  foes. 


XIII. 

And  where  was  Clara  ?     In  that  chamber  dark 
She  might,  by  sounds,  the  battle's  progress  mark ; 
She  heard  when  Gilbert  woke  them  to  the  fray, 
And  when  the  door  to  angry  blows  gave  way ; 
The  volleyed  crash  that  sped  the  deadly  hail, 
And  the  long  shout  that  quivered  to  a  wail, 
She  heard ;  but  still,  as  wilder  grew  the  din, 
And  crept  the  sulphurous  smoke  the  room  withiSj 

''"-••-"'^  ^^VS^^v 

0?   TH~" 


5  6  ELVA. 

One  maddening  thought — her  Gilbert! — torture  grew. 

His  single  form  her  frenzied  fancy  drew ; 

Each  blade  was  bent  at  Gilbert's  heart  alone, 

In  every  cry  rung  Gilbert's  dying  moan, 

Till  a  dull  sense — like  slumber  or  like  death — 

Unnerved    her   limbs   and    quenched    her    struggling 

breath, 

Seemed  the  wild  strife  in  distance  far  to  die, 
And  gleamed  with  rainbow  tints  her  closing  eye. 
She  wakes.    How  dark  and  chill !  Confused,  she  hears — 
She  scarce  knows  what !     Her  cheek  is  drenched  with 

tears, 

And  forms  and  scenes  distorted  cross  her  mind, 
Like  images  on  water  swept  by  wind. 
She   starts !    Ah,  now   all's   known ;    that  voice — for 

well 

Each  tone  of  that  loved  voice  her  ears  can  tell ! 
'Twas  then  that  Gilbert  strove  with  voice  and  hand 
To  that  last  charge  to  cheer  his  drooping  band — 
She  hears,  and  flies/flings  wide  the  door,  and  all 
Is  there  revealed  within  that  gory  hall. 

XIV. 

Low  lay  Gleneden's  chief, — his  crimson  vest 

Dark  with  the  warm  blood  springing  from  his  breast : 

O'er  him  stood  Gilbert ;  still  his  sabre  kept 

At  bay  the  circling  host  that  round  him  swept ; 

When,  with  a  long,  wild  shout  and  bursting  shock, 

The  ranks  are  riven,  the  reeling  masses  rock ; 

And,  piercing  through  the  midst,  fresh  troops  are  seen, 

With  weapons  bared,  and  clad  in  robes  of  green. 

"  Oh,  welcome!  welcome!"  burst  from  Gilbert's  tongue, 

As  proudly  to  that  column's  head  he  sprung; 


ELVA. 


57 


Not  long  the  foe  that  sweeping  charge  may  bide  : 
Wildly  they  fly,  or  fall  on  every  side. 

xv. 

And  the  last  blow  has  fallen.     All  is  still. 
Hark  to  the  murmur  of  the  gentle  rill ; 
List  to  the  breezy  song  the  night-wind  sings; 
How  the  leaves  shiver  when  the  long  bough  swings. 
And  this  is  Nature,  beautiful  by  night ! 
Most  beautiful, — most  heavenly  in  such  light 
As  now  sleeps  on  her.     Mighty  God  !  how  mean 
Seems  the  poor  reptile  man  in  such  a  scene  ! 
But  where  are  they,— the  forms  who  lately  stood 
On  that  wild  floor,  so  slippery  now  with  blood? 
Oh,  many  stay  there  still ;  around  they  sleep, 
In  tortured  attitudes  of  anguish  deep  ; 
And  some,  but  few,  are  fugitives :   far  down 
In  the  deep  gorges  of  the  forest  brown 
Are  forms  that  struggle  through  the  long  rank  grass, 
And  pause,  and  start,  and  tremble  as  they  pass. 
And  Gilbert, — the  triumphant, — where  is  he? 
Lo  !  'neath  the  shadow  of  yon  ivied  tree 
A  group  of  sorrowing,  sobbing  warriors  bend 
O'er  him  they  bled  for,  but  could  not  defend. 
Oh,  destiny  inscrutable !     Through  all 
Unharmed  to  pass, — the  bayonet  and  the  ball, — 
And  in  the  moment  of  success  to  fall ! 
His  life  bleeds  slowly  from  him ;  and  beside 
Kneels  she  who  was — or  should  have  been — his  bride; 
Mutely  she  kneels,  nor  moves,  nor  weeps,  nor  sighs, 
But  only  gazes  on  his  glazing  eyes 
And  presses  his  cold  temples.     Time  rolls  past, — 
Each  moment  an  eternity;  they  cast 
c* 


58  ITALIA. 

Inquiring  glances  on  her ;  and  they  see 

At  last  this  dauntless  spirit  is  set  free, 

Yet  in  her  see  no  motion.     But,  when  gray 

In  the  far  east  appeared  the  rising  day, 

They  stooped  to  raise  the  little  arms  that  bound 

His  silent  head  and  stony  temples  round. 

They  found  her  gentle  spirit,  too,  had  gone, — 

She  was  a  corpse,  like  him  she  rested  on  ! 


ITALIA. 


PURPLE-FRUITED  and  trailing  vines 
Girdle  the  base  of  the  Apennines ; 
Olive-  and  orange-  and  lemon-trees  grow ; 
Fragrant  and  bright  are  the  flowers  that  blow ; 
From  the  blue  heaven  a  wind  of  balm 
Sighs  like  the  sound  of  a  cloistered  psalm ; 
Odors  and  music,  in  blended  wave, 
Slumbering  valley  and  upland  lave ; 
Ambient  air  and  golden  light ; 
Silver-shining  and  dewy  night ; 
Shores  whose  every  tufted  mound 
Shades  of  heroes  wander  round ; 
Rivers  so  calm,  and  deep,  and  wide, 
And  of  such  pure,  translucent  tide, 
That  heaven  forever  smiles  to  see 
Her  face  returned  so  lovingly  ! 


ITALIA. 

All  is  beautiful, — all  is  fair; 
Nothing  of  evil  in  earth  or  air 
Ever  stops  or  tarries  there. 

ii. 

Such  is  the  land  that  blooms  and  shines 
Around  the  base  of  the  Apennines. 
But  midway  up  the  mountain-side, 

Where  the  fierce  storms,  extending  far, 
Marshal  their  cloudy  hosts  for  war, 
And  shake  their  dusky  banners  wide, 
The  oak  his  fluted  trunk  uprears, 
Gray  with  the  moss  of  many  years, 
But  greenly  capitaled.     Oh,  high 
The  whistling  tempest  shall  go  by 
Before  its  frosty  fingers  shed 
One  leafy  honor  from  his  head, 
Or  shake,  how  wild  soe'er  its  rage, 
The  vigor  of  his  lusty  age  ! 
There,  in  that  temperate  region,  flower 
The  branches  of  the  woodland  bower ; 
There  the  green  larch  like  emerald  gleams ; 
There  mourns  the  willow  o'er  the  streams; 
The  chestnut  and  the  walnut  shade 
The  hill-side  green,  the  duskier  glade; 
Their  stately  forms,  with  arms  combined, 
Swing  to  the  chorus  of  the  wind, 
And  where  their  roots  embracing  cling, 
Upwells  the  pure  and  living  spring, 
The  infant  river,  whose  cool  breath 
Shall  fan  the  fainting  land  beneath. 
But  never  the  sweet  wind  blows  there 
That  waves  along  the  lowland  air, 


59 


60  ITALIA. 

With  soft,  voluptuous  poison  rife, 
And  fatal  unto  manhood's  life ; 
The  breeze  is  chill,  for  frosts  are  near ; 
The  steel-blue  sky  is  cold  and  clear, 
And  health  goes  with  the  circling  year. 


III. 

Up  higher  yet  the  hemlocks  throw 

Their  long  blue  shadows  o'er  the  snow. 

The  sombre  pine,  recluse  of  trees, 

Moans  feebly  to  the  heedless  breeze ; 

In  gloomy  green  the  fir-tree  wild, 

Forgetful  Nature's  foster-child, 

Holds  with  the  storm  unceasing  strife, 

The  outward  picket-guard  of  life. 

The  North  breathes  there, — no  blast  but  brings 

The  powdery  snow-dust  on  its  wings ; 

No  tempering  rain  bedews  the  gale ; 

But  on  bare  peak  and  upland  vale 

Full  sharply  rings  the  rattling  hail. 

And  far  above,  in  cloudless  light, 

Beyond  the  tempest's  bolder  flight, 

By  earthquake  rent,  by  ages  worn, 

By  the  slow-swelling  ice-wedge  torn, 

The  herbless  granite,  wrenched  and  riven, 

Alone  beneath  the  arch  of  heaven, 

With  many  a  splintered  pinnacle^ 

Cleaves  the  thin  air  serene  and  still, 

And  wears  its  robes  unstained,  untrod, 

White-shining  in  the  sight  of  God. 

O  solemn  realm,  while  far  below, 

The  tides  of  nations  ebb  and  flow ; 


ITALIA.  6 1 

While  in  the  mid-height  temperate  glades 

The  thick-leaved  forest  flowers  and  fades ; 

The  lordly  oak  and  hardy  pine 

Spring,  flourish,  wither,  and  decline ; 

While  all  beneath  the  milder  day 

Bloom  forth,  bear  fruit,  and  pass  away, — 

O  land  of  sheen  and  death,  on  thee 

No  change  has  been,  nor  e'er  shall  be. 

Thy  plains  of  desolate  repose 

Wake  not  to  human  joys  or  woes ; 

No  sound,  no  motion,  grave  or  gay, 

Disturbs  thy  dread  soliloquy, 

Save  when  the  condor  clouds  the  glow 

That  glitters  o'er  thy  frozen  snow, 

Or  in  thy  sparry  caverns  lone 

The  wandering  wind  doth  shriek  and  moan, 

Calling  sad  echoes  from  the  stone. 


IV. 

Such  are  the  belt,  the  base,  the  crown 

Of  this  bright  land  of  fame. 
Here  on  this  ledge  come  sit  we  down 

And  conjure  with  her  name. 
Land  of  my  dreams,  fair  Italy  ! 
Oh,  fain  would  I  thy  future  see. 
Dark  sibyl  of  a  god  unknown, 
Queen  of  a  dim  aurora  throne, 
Is  there  no  spell,  in  word,  nor  song, 
Nor  sacrifice,  nor  vigils  long, 
Nor  penance,  that  can  wring  from  thee 
Some  knowledge  of  the  stern  decree 
Thine  eye  peruseth  constantly  ? 
6 


62  ITALIA. 

I  have  beheld  in  dreams,  at  times 
When  o'er  my  brain  the  charm  of  rhymes 
Has  softly  murmured,  mingling  life 
With  visions  in  fantastic  strife, 
I  have  beheld  a  lone,  drear  cave, 
Around  whose  dismal  entrance  wave 
Long  groves  of  cypress, — while  the  yew 
Weeps  from  above  its  baleful  dew, — 
A  yawning  gulf  of  gloom  and  fear, 
Which  none  but  sleepers  venture  near ; 
Whence  troops  of  winds,  like  living  things, 
Rush  ever  forth  on  unseen  wings. 
Prophetic  scenes  are  shifting  there, 
And  visions  strange  disturb  the  air; 
And  all  the  unsolid  shapes  that  wait 
The  summons  and  command  of  fate 
Crouch  in  its  caverns,  still  and  dumb, — 
Wan  shadows  of  the  things  to  come. 
There,  wandering  late,  it  chanced  to  seem 
That  words  like  these  were  in  my  dream : 
"  Joy  !  joy  for  Nature's  second  birth  ! 
A  spirit  has  passed  o'er  the  earth ; 
The  breath  of  Deity  again 
Is  stirring  the  dry  bones  of  men  ; 
Clear  from  the  sward  its  cankering  rust ; 
Awake  the  slave  that  sleeps  in  dust ; 
Ye  strong  of  arm,  ye  bold  of  heart, 
Rejoice  ;  behold  the  gloom  depart ; 
Day  dawns, — the  long-expected  day 
When  the  old  things  must  pass  away ; 
The  hour  draws  near,  so  long  delayed, 
For  triumph  and  for  vengeance  made ; 


ITALIA.  63 

And  sacred  shall  the  soldier  be 
Who  strongly  striketh  to  be  free  !" 
Pass  on,  fierce  storm  and  ruthless  wind  ! 
Peace,  joy,  and  love  are  close  behind; 
And  vines  and  blossoms  have  arrayed 
The  wreck  the  hurricane  has  made. 
Oh,  smiling  earth  !  oh,  day  of  pride, 
Whose  dawning  was  so  redly  dyed  ! 
Oh,  harvest  fair  of  waving  gold  ! 
Alas  !  the  hands  that  sowed  are  cold  ! 
But  streams  from  human  hearts  alone 
Can  drown  the  scaffold  and  the  throne. 


Hero  of  triumphs, — Italy  ! 

Though  deep  thy  fettered  slumber  be, 

The  voice,  the  spirit,  speaks  to  thee ; 

So  like  a  wind,  it  moves,  it  waves 

The  verdure  on  thy  warriors'  graves. 

Wake,  Giant,  wake  !  rank  weeds  have  grown 

Betwixt  the  crumbling  sculptured  stone, 

The  wilderness  of  ruin  spread 

For  thy  hard  pillow  and  cold  bed, 

And  wreathe  thy  temples,  where  should  twine 

Green  laurels  and  the  clustering  vine. 

Wake  from  thy  sleep  enchanted  !  rise  ! 

Earth  waits  the  opening  of  thy  eyes, 

And  heaven,  no  longer  frowning,  beams 

O'er  the  dull  chaos  of  thy  dreams. 

Still  art  thou  sleeping?     Dost  thou  hear 
No  murmur  swelling  in  thine  ear? 
Behold,  their  very  graves  are  gone 
That  bowed  the  nations  at  thy  throne : 


64  ITALIA. 

Sons  of  thy  slaves  have  borne  afar 

Thy  trophies  and  thy  spoils  of  war ; 

Within  thy  temples,  built  to  brave 

The  dash  of  Time's  assailing  wave, 

Hark  how  the  conquering  wind  doth  rave; 

Gray  ruin  on  thy  strong-built  towers, 

Green  mildew  in  thy  myrtle  bowers ; 

Thy  matrons  and  thy  maids  alone 

For  thy  lost  manhood  mourn  and  moan. 

VI. 

Art  thou  yet  sleeping  ?  dost  thou  know 
How  frail  the  links  that  bind  thee  low  ? 
The  thread  the  child  for  pastime  burns, 
The  ice  on  streams  when  spring  returns, 
The  chains  of  flowers  that  maidens  wear, 
The  gossamer  that  floats  in  air, 
Are  stronger  than  thy  fetters  when 
Thy  Roman  heart  shall  beat  again. 


Ay,  and  it  comes,  and  fast,  the  morn 

When  these  same  chains  thy  limbs  have  worn 

Shall  steel  to  stubborn  hands  afford 

To  forge  again  the  Roman  sword. 

Then  woe  to  you,  ye  kings,  whose  hands 

Have  riveted  the  long-worn  bands; 

Who  laughed,  and  dared  with  touch  profane 

The  Roman  Mother's  breast  to  stain; 

Far  from  the  form  your  slanderous  tongues 

Have  soiled  with  insults,  taunts,  and  wrongs ; 

From  her,  so  injured,  so  betrayed, 

So  crushed,  so  shamed,  so  disarrayed, 


ITALIA,  65 

Whose  very  name  ye  made  for  mirth 
A  mockery  o'er  the  broad,  bright  earth, 
Shall  spring  the  spirit  that  shall  be 
Your  downfall  and  your  destiny. 

VIII. 

And  thou,  the  Triple-crowned,  whose  chain 

Enslaves  alike  the  heart  and  brain, — 

Whose  mystic  sceptre  can  control 

At  once  the  body  and  the  soul, — 

Thou,  at  whose  advent  nations  came 

And  sang  hosannas  to  thy  name, — 

Beware,  remember,  think  :   ere  now 

The  crown  has  crushed  a  tyrant's  brow ; 

For  years  have  slaves  endured,  and  then 

At  last  remembered  they  were  men. 

Look  round  thy  land ;  the  yellow  grain 

Ungarnered  moulders  on  the  plain, 

And  the  ungathered  grape  dissolves  in  crimson  rain. 

Look  round  thy  land  ;  do  fruits  like  these 

Grow  ripe  beneath  the  beams  of  peace  ? 

Hark  to  the  sounds  that  wound  the  ear,— 

The  shrieks  of  pain,  the  screams  of  fear, 

The  roar  of  rushing  flames,  the  peal 

Of  hurtling  shot  and  clashing  steel, 

The  sobs  of  manly  hearts,  the  wild 

Sharp  cries  of  mother,  maid,  and  child. 

These  make  the  wind  that  shrill  doth  moan 

Unceasing  round  thy  sacred  throne  ; 

Hadst  thou  no  fear  that  saddening  shame 

Would  fall  like  mildew  on  thy  name? 

For  thou  to  all  the  world  didst  say, 

"  I  break  the  seal  that  closes  day  ; 


66  ITALIA. 

To  this  my  land  I  thus  decree, 

From  Christ  my  Master,  and  from  me : 

Glad  tidings  of  great  joy  have  come  : 

For  those  who  sadly  wander,  home ; 

For  those  who  hunger,  bread  ;  for  those 

Athirst  and  weary,  sweet  repose ; 

Earth  and  its  fruits  to  all  belong, — 

The  weak,  the  suffering,  and  the  strong, — 

To  all  whom  Jesus  died  to  save, 

And  hope  from  heaven  beyond  the  grave. ' ' 

IX. 

These  were  thy  promises ;  for  these 
Rose  from  the  islands  of  the  seas, 
From  far  and  near,  with  grand  acclaim, 
Loud  hallelujahs  to  thy  name. 
But  speak,  ye  bleeding  ghosts  that  fright 
The  shadows  of  your  country's  night, 
Who  darken  and  disturb  the  day, 
Roving  with  Terror  and  Dismay ; 
Speak,  till  the  heavens,  re-echoing,  tell 
How  far  he  kept  them,  and  how  well. 

x. 

Not  thine  alone  the  shame ;  far  worse, 
And  worthy  of  a  heavier  curse, 
Are  those  who  counseled  to  betray 
Thy  course  in  the  disastrous  day 
When  heavenly  impulse  changed  to  fear 
And  checked  thee  in  thy  brave  career. 
This  may  excuse  thee,  Prince  of  Souls, 
Whose  weakness  now  the  world  controls ; 


ITALIA.  67 

— Ah,  weakness  in  precarious  times 
In  rulers  is  the  worst  of  crimes. 

XI. 

But  to  the  theme.     Again  we  turn 
Where  Freedom's  watch-fires  faintly  burn. 
What  trumpets  fright  the  peaceful  air  ? 
What  banners  wave,  what  blades  are  bare, 
By  yellow  Tiber's  purpled  foam  ? 
What  cannon  shake  the  walls  of  Rome  ? 
Who  to  the  seven-hilled  city  brings 
Red  war, — the  argument  of  kings  ? 

XII. 

All  conquering  Gaul, — the  brave,  the  free, — 
Fair  Child  of  Faith,  'tis  thee,  'tis  thee. 
Hail  to  thy  hosts  returning, — hail 
The  flags  far-streaming  on  the  gale, 
Those  bright  tri-tinted  banners  given 
To  suffering  man  by  sympathizing  Heaven  ! 
Hail  to  thy  reddened  arm  that  gave 
Death's  freedom  to  the  vainly  brave, — 
The  heroes  thou  wert  sworn  to  save  ! 
God  !  that  a  freeman  e'er  should  name 
Thy  bandit  hosts,  or  sing  thy  shame  ! 
That  heaven's  bright,  blessed  sun  should  shine 
On  brazen  infamy  like  thine  ! 
Thou  branded  with  the  mark  of  Cain, 
Thou  harlot,  fickle,  fierce,  and  vain, 
Thou  lewd,  blaspheming  hypocrite, 
That,  clothed  in  Freedom's  robes  of  light, 
Art  leagued  with  Tophet  and  dull  night, 
Flaunt  on  and  triumph,  boast  how  far 
Have  flowed  the  billows  of  thy  war, 
6* 


68  ITALIA. 

Toss  thy  red  plumes,  and  vaunt  the  zeal 

That  edged  thy  fratricidal  steel, 

And  wave  thy  streaming  sword  whose  thrust 

Laid  thy  young  brother  in  the  dust ; 

But  know  that  thou  shalt  perish ;  know, 

In  thy  own  dwelling  lurks  the  foe, 

The  avenger  that  shall  lay  thee  low. 

The  peacock  plumage  on  thy  crest, 

With  blood  bedewed  thy  wanton  breast ; 

Not  all  thy  terrors  nor  thy  charms 

Shall  baffle  the  avenging  arms 

Of  thine  own  vices ;  with  thy  breath 

Of  perfumed  air  thou  breathest  death. 

Thy  guilt  shall  slay  thee  ;  when  rise  high 

Thy  godless  revels,  thou  shalt  die. 

Thine  aimless  science,  thy  array 

Of  tinseled  crime  and  gilt  decay, 

Thy  fame,  thy  prostituted  art, 

All,  all  shall  shrivel  and  depart ; 

And  the  wild  wolf,  that  naught  can  tame, 

And  rank  corruption's  marshy  flame, 

By  day  shall  prowl,  by  night  shall  glance, 

Along  the  ruined  fields  of  France. 

A  whirlwind  from  the  frozen  north, 

Dark-winged  and  strong,  shall  issue  forth, 

Before  whose  showers  of  iron  hail 

The  bravest  of  thy  chiefs  shall  quail 

And  shiver  in  its  frosty  gale. 

Hark !  through  thy  shattered  halls  it  roars ; 

And  hark !  what  shouts  of  vengeance  and  what  mirth 

Rise  from  the  rifled  field,  the  invaded  hearth, 

To  see  thee  banished  from  the  breast  of  earth. 


ITALIA.  69 

XIII. 

O  land  of  bloom  and  beauty, — thou 
With  youth  eternal  on  thy  brow, — 
Despair  not,  but  endure  :  thy  day 
Cannot  be  faint,  nor  far  away. 
Long  was  thy  penance,  just  and  long, 
For  pride  had  warped  thy  heart  to  wrong, 
And  thirst  of  conquest,  wealth,  and  fame, 
Had  dimmed  the  splendor  of  thy  name. 
But  God,  who  burns  to  purify, 
Will  wipe  the  sorrows  from  thine  eye  : 
When  all  desert  thee,  and  when  they 
Who  chained  thine  eagles  melt  away, 
His  anger  shall  pass  from  thee,  He 
Will  speak  the  word  shall  make  thee  free. 

XIY. 

Farewell,  fair  land,  farewell ;  too  long 

Has  flowed  the  current  of  my  song ; 

But  in  my  swelling  veins  the  blood 

Becomes  the  lava's  liquid  flood, 

And  fire  consumes  my  heart,  when  I 

Cast  o'er  the  land  I  love  mine  eye ; 

For  those  she  honors,  trusts,  sustain?, 

Have  forged  and  linked  and  bound  her  chains, 

And  priests  and  kings  forget  whose  hand 

Bestowed  the  crosier  and  the  brand, 

And  live,  as  vampires  live,  to  drain 

Life  from  their  bride's,  their  victim's  vein, 

Drinking  from  gasping  lips  their  breath, 

And  living  on  a  nation's  death. 


70  LINES   TO  A   FALLEN  STAR. 


LINES    TO   A   FALLEN    STAR. 

THROUGH  the  brown  billows  of  the  mighty  flood, 
From  underneath  the  impalpable,  shoreless  main,— 
The  unsounded  deluge  of  translucent  gloom 
That  flies  and  follows  day, — from  the  drowned  earth, 
Through  rayless  ether  and  vacuity, 
Towards  the  blue  expansion  springs  my  soul. 

And  lo  !   there  is  a  change  in  the  clear  sky, — 
A  strange  mutation  in  the  deep  serene. 
An  influence  has  departed  ;  a  loved  orb — 
The  first  I  saw,  the  last  I  ceased  to  see 
When  the  blank  earth  compelled  me  to  the  stars — 
Has  reddened,  waned,  and  vanished  :  for  my  heart, 
That  quickened  in  its  brilliancy,  as  waves 
Thrill  to  the  shadowed  planet  of  gray  morn, 
Pulsates  untroubled,  and  its  springs  have  peace, — 
Despair's  existence,  apathy's  repose, — 
And  from  their  unsuccessful  flight,  through  where 
Beamed  the  far  bourn  and  Eden  of  my  dreams, 
My  thoughts  return  aweary  to  my  breast. 
There  is  a  light — a  loveliness — the  less 
In  night's  refulgent  sisterhood  ;  a  space 
Of  fathomless  gloom,  where  late  was  radiance ;  all 
The  baleful  damps  of  unforetold  eclipse 
Have  quenched  the  pride  of  the  ascending  stars: 
Of  one — the  miracle  of  eve  and  morn — 


LINES   TO  A   FALLEN  STAR.  71 

The  sphere  is  henceforth  vacancy ;  and  one, 

To  whom,  from  dusk  till  dawn,  the  whole  night  through 

Went  adorations,  prayers,  and  burning  sighs, 

And  passionate  longings  of  intense  high  souls, 

Is  now  no  longer  visible  in  heaven. 

A  song  for  thee,  lost  Pleiad  !  a  sweet  song ; 
For  in  the  eternal  harmonies  no  part 
Than  thine  was  more  melodious :  a  sad  song ; 
For  shadows  of  a  tearful,  tremulous  grief 
Were  in  thy  clearest  aspects,  and  thy  fall 
And  doom  are  now  so  dread  that,  were  they  told 
In  their  stern  truth  and  naked  hideousness, 
Echo  would  fear  to  answer;  men  would  start 
And  shudder  as  the  stern  decree  went  past, 
Shocking  the  heart  like  death  and  stifling  pain. 

Glorious,  oh,  glorious  as  the  earliest  beams 
Of  heaven's  serenest  planets,  in  those  nights — 
Those  first  clear  nights — in  Paradise,  before 
The  damps  and  exhalations  of  the  earth 
Had  veiled  the  splendor  of  the  hosts  divine, 
So  pure,  so  glorious,  so  undimmed  thy  dawn. 
Poets  came  forth,  framers  of  silver  strains 
Immortal  as  the  music  of  the  spheres, 
And  tuned  their  harps  and  hearts  to  praise  of  thee. 
Sages  sought  wisdom  in  thy  shining  face, 
Remembering  not  the  knowledge  of  old  days, 
The  gathered  thoughts  of  time,  warning  them  back, 
*But  seeking  lore  prophetic  in  the  dreams 
Down-flowing  with  thy  soft  descending  light, 
And  wondering  at  Chaldea's  seers  no  more. 
Earth  lost  a  portion  of  her  native  gloom, 


72  LINES   TO  A   FALLEN  STAR. 

And  heaven  grew  brighter,  as  thy  dawn  drew  near; 

And  when  I  knelt  before  thee,  and  became 

Idolater,  and  felt  thy  singular  might 

Like  sweet  insanity  invest  my  fate 

With  an  unreal  splendor,  health,  and  peace, 

And  joy,  and  inspiration,  and  pure  love 

Were  satellites  attendant  in  thy  train. 

But  all  has  vanished,  like  a  track  in  the  sea : 
Beauty  and  glory,  harmony  and  might, 
Departed,  like  the  phosphorescent  gleam 
Of  the  stirred  wave  subsiding  into  gloom. 
Woe  to  the  fiend  who  mastered  thy  career  ! 
Oh,  woe  and  agony  as  unconfined 
As  space,  eternity,  and  God,  be  his 
Who  cast  thee  from  the  brightness  of  thy  place 
Down  to  destruction  and  the  starless  void  ! 
For  now  thy  course  is  centreless ;  the  form 
So  wondrous  once  and  glorious  has  become 
A  troublous  spectre :  every  eye  beheld 
How  all  thy  clear  companions  of  the  night 
Grew  pallid  at  thy  uncontrolled  career. 
A  wandering  horror,  darkened,  but  not  still, 
Lost,  yet  unresting,  aimless,  but  yet  forced 
With  dread  propulsion  down,  thou  shalt  depart 
Into  the  untenanted  chasm  of  space,  where  lies 
The  shadow  of  God, — the  midnight  of  the  spheres. 
There,  through  that  waste,  opaque,  eternal  gloom, 
Thou,  sinking,  shalt  perceive  the  Ages  pass 
And  bring  no  chains  to  thee.     Ten  thousand  suns 
Shall  kindle  and  expire,  each  shining  through 
Duration  unto  which  thy  brief  career 
Was  lightning's  flash,  and  still  thou  shalt  go  down, 


LINES   TO  A   FALLEN  STAR.  73 

Blind,  wandering,  lost,  forever  and  forever. 
Oh,  wasted  beauty  !  ruin  most  complete  ! 
Oh,  grief !  oh,  woe  !     Alas  !  alas  !  alas  ! 

The  darkness  of  thy  desolation  comes, 
Breaking  the  eternal  sunrise  of  the  future, 
Far-stretching,  in  its  spectral  duskiness, 
Along  the  troubled  surface  of  my  soul. 
Oh,  thou  art  doomed  so  darkly  !     Oh,  alas  ! 
That  thou,  the  pure,  shouldst  perish  thus  !     Alas  1 
That  the  bright  orb  that  swayed  my  bosom's  tides, 
The  star  of  my  idolatry,  the  realm 
My  fancy  loved  to  people  with  bright  shapes 
Of  unalloyed  creation,  thus  should  be 
Struck  down  from  heaven,  a  blank  and  blighted  mass 
Wandering  and  hopeless,  desolate  and  drear  ! 
The  fire  that  was  thy  glory  has  consumed  thee ; 
And  the  pale  glow  that  yet  betimes  may  come 
To  cheat  the  gazer  with  the  ghost  of  beams 
(If  yet,  perchance,  aught  may  behold  thy  course), 
Like  charnel  flowers  upon  a  new-made  grave, 
Is  but  the  blaze  of  rottenness,  the  gloom 
Of  the  decaying  embers  that  shall  soon 
Sink  into  bitter  ashes. 

Would  that  He 

Who  blest  thee  with  a  portion  of  his  brightness, 
And  blest  through  thee  all  who  thy  beams  beheld, — 
For  men,  who  dare  not  face  the  light  of  day, 
Receive  the  sunlight  from  the  milder  moon 
With  eyes  upraised  and  grateful, — ah,  that  He 
Had  reassumed  thy  splendor  once  again, 
And  drawn  thee  from  thy  orbit  home  to  heaven  ! 
D  7 


74  LINES   TO   A   FALLEN  STAR. 

I  and  thy  thousand  votaries  could  have  borne 

The  darkness,  and  within  thy  vacant  sphere 

Discerned  a  hope, — oft  dazzled  eyes  behold 

A  phantom  sun  when  the  true  sun  has  set,— 

And  silence  had  been  eloquent  with  dreams 

And  intimations  of  a  loftier  state, — 

Of  an  ecstatic  realm,  where  countless  hosts 

Revolve  in  splendor  round  the  throne  of  God. 

But  doubt,  and  dread,  and  an  unsoothable  pang, 

And  shudderings  such  as  trouble  us  when  we  keep 

Companionship  with  the  unrighteous  dead, 

Are  linked  with  every  memory  of  thee. 

Thy  name,  that  once  was  music,  and  that  came 

Spontaneous  to  the  lips  of  those  who  spoke 

Of  peace,  of  purity,  innocence,  and  love, 

Is  shunned  and  dreaded  as  a  word  accursed. 

Go  forth,  lost  wanderer,  to  return  no  more ; 

A  world  condemned,  thy  bright  possessing  visions 

Transformed  to  demons  ;  go  thou  forth  alone  ; 

The  heavens  have  lost  their  likeness,  and  earth  moans, 

Echoing  their  moans  who  madly  yielded  up 

To  thee  their  worship  and  with  thee  were  lost. 


THE  PILGRIMAGE  INTO    THULE. 


75 


THE    PILGRIMAGE    INTO    THULE. 

I  WILL  to  sing  of  wanderers  three 
Who  journeyed  to  a  far  countrie : 
Three  restless  souls,  who  longed  to  hear 
The  music  of  a  loftier  sphere ; 
Who  longed  to  taste  the  streams  divine 
That,  heaven-descended,  gush  and  shine    . 
Adown  the  mountains  crystalline, — 
The  beautiful  blue  mountains,  where 
To  breathe  the  thin,  celestial  air, 

To  drink  the  fiery  breath, 
Is  to  be  mighty, — is  to  be 
Immortal,  ere  life's  rushing  sea 

Rolls  o'er  the  brink  of  death; 
To  tread  whose  summits  is  to  hear 
The  hastening  Ages,  ere  the  sheen 
Of  sunlight  on  their  front  is  seen, 
With  solemn  and  profound  acclaim 
Shout  from  futurity  the  name 
Of  the  bold  Wanderer  who  has  seized 

The  sceptre  of  the  years  unborn. 
Alas  !  and  yet,  beneath  the  shade 
Of  laurels  on  his  brows  arrayed, 
To  hear  those  shouts,  of  worlds  amazed, 

With  bitterness  and  scorn. 
Sweet  Fancy  !  be  mine  aid  the  while, 
And  cheer  me  with  thy  sunny  smile 


7  6  ,          THE  PILGRIMAGE  INTO    THULE. 

And  beamy  eye,  or  dull  may  seem 
The  changes  of  my  fitful  dream. 
Celestial  Fancy  !  teach  me  ;  say 
How  dim,  how  silent  is  the  way, 
And  trace,  with  fairy  finger  free, 
The  borders  of  that  far  countrie. 


At  the  solemn  eventide, 
When  stately  Dian  wanders  down 
The  azure  fields,  with  crescent  crown, 

And  Venus  at  her  side, — 
At  the  silent  eventide, 
When  the  flocking  swallows  glide, 
Lazily,  mazily  glide  and  swim 
Through  the  warm  air  waxing  dim, 
When  the  light  is  neither  of  night  nor  day, 
I  am  wont  to  drift  away 
In  a  boat,  with  none  but  me, 
Over  a  fathomless,  endless  sea, 
Flowing  into  Eternity. 
Into  that  ocean  many  a  stream 

Swiftly  and  dreamily  doth  flow, 
Breaking  with  a  starry  gleam, 

And  music  sounding  low ; 
And  the  rivers  are  from  the  lands  that  lie 
Up  in  the  cloudy  sunset  sky, — 
The  region  where  extremes  do  meet, 
The  realm  of  vapors,  frost,  and  heat, 

The  land  of  fire  and  snow. 
Few  are  they,  adventurously 
Drifting  over  that  shadowy  sea, 


THE   PILGRIMAGE   INTO    THULE.  77 

Who  dare  ascend  those  rivers  bright 
Into  that  silent  land  of  light ; 
For  the  thin,  translucent  air, 
And  the  beams  that  sparkle  there, 
Have  a  keener  life,  a  fiercer  thrill, 
Than  mortal  form  can  bear. 

Only  he  whose  eye  is  dim 
With  gazing,  by  the  light  of  dreams, 

On  the  glory  of  saint  and  seraphim, — 
Only  he  whose  ear  is  drowned 
In  the  troubled  surge  of  thought  profound, — 
Only  he  whose  heart  aches  ever 
For  the  love  he  findeth  never, 
Can  see,  can  hear,  can  hope  to  bear 
The  scenes,  the  strains, 
The  rapture  that  endureth  there. 

And  woe,  and  woe,  and  misery 

To  the  wretch  whom  destiny 

Wrecks  on  that  fair  but  deadly  shore, 

Whence  he  can  return  no  more  ! 

There  Frenzy,  with  a  phantom  train, 

Shall  rend  his  bosom,  craze  his  brain ; 

Manifold  delusions  still 

Shall  bewilder  heart  and  will ; 

On  his  pathway  desolate 

Pale  Dismay  shall  lie  in  wait, 

With  shadowy  hopes,  and  nameless  fears, 

And  griefs  that  have  no  tears. 

Yet  the  dullest  eye  unharmed  may  see 
The  verge  of  that  land  of  mystery. 
7* 


78  THE   PILGRIMAGE  INTO    THULE. 

When  the  moon  is  thin  and  sharp, 

When  the  dark  wood  looks  but  is  not  calm, 
And  within  its  aisles  the  wind  doth  harp, 

Chanting  a  mighty  psalm ; 
When  gigantic  shapes  stand  still 
In  the  shadow  of  the  hill ; 
When  the  first  faint  stars,  with  trembling  eyes, 
Seem  weeping  as  the  daylight  dies, — 
Then,  o'er  the  purple  hills,  behold 
A  dusky  rampart,  edged  with  gold, 
Its  crumbling  domes  and  towers  uprear 
Through  the  soft  amber  atmosphere, 
Seeming  by  its  Alpine  range, 
Its  wizard  grandeur  still  and  strange, 
As  though  giant  hands  had  riven 
From  its  base  a  mountain  wild, 
And  the  fragments  roughly  piled 
To  the  very  gates  of  heaven. 

Lo  !  on  the  ruin's  topmost  stone 

A  mighty  form  doth  stand, 
Girt  with  the  genii's  jeweled  zone 

And  bright  seraphic  band  ; 
Wings  spread  like  flame,  with  curving  sweep, 
Support  him  on  that  airy  steep ; 
In  his  hands  an  open  book, 

On  his  sunny  brow  a  crown, 
And,  with  fixed  averted  look, 

Still  he  gazes  calmly  down 
On  the  red  light  softly  shining, 
On  the  day's  serene  declining. 
Tell  me  not  of  clouds  made  bright 
By  the  glowing  golden  light ! 


THE  PILGRIMAGE   INTO    THULE.  79 

Tell  me  not  of  fancy's  power 
At  the  witching  twilight  hour  ! 
Well  the  poet  knows  'tis  he 

Whom  the  cloudy  gates  obey, 
He  who  holds  the  golden  key 

To  the  realms  of  endless  day; 
Nothing  of  fantastic  birth, 

But  that  rare  and  radiant  one, 
Gazing  round  the  bended  earth 

After  the  declining  sun  ! 
Floating  on  that  endless  sea 
Flowing  into  Eternity, 
When  the  twittering  swallows  swim 
Through  the  warm  air  waxing  dim, 
Often  am  I  forced  to  go 
Up  the  silent  streams  that  flow 
From  the  land  of  fire  and  snow. 
And  fate — sad  fate  ! — my  shallop  brings 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  those  wings, 
Those  heaven-made  wings,  that  curve  and  blaze 
Like  comets  through  the  yellow  haze, 
While  spectral  shapes  around  me  throng. 
There  dreamily  I  drift  along, 
With  such  a  throbbing  heart  and  head, 

And  such  a  keeping  of  my  breath, 
And  such  a  doubt,  and  such  a  dread, 

It  only  is  not  death. 


ii. 

And  up  these  silent  streams  came  they, 
Those  Pilgrims  of  a  troubled  heart ; 
They  had  drunk  poison ;  and  for  aye, 


8o  THE   PILGRIMAGE  INTO    THULE. 

Who  drinks  the  draught  of  Phantasy 

With  soft-eyed  Peace  must  part. 
At  the  like  time — at  evenfall — 
They  floated  past  that  airy  wall 
Alike  with  muffled  hearts  they  came 
Beneath  those  wings  of  streaming  flame, 
And  hushed  and  eagerly  passed  o'er 
The  verge  of  that  enchanted  shore. 

And  far  beyond  that  angel  bright, 

And  that  barrier  built  in  air, 
They  came  to  a  flood  of  liquid  light, 

That  washes  a  shore  of  beauty  rare. 
'Tis  the  flood  of  thought,  all  glowing, 

Like  a  placid  moonlit  river ; 
But  the  beams  that  gild  its  flowing 

Fall  upon  its  breast  forever. 
Star  nor  moon  need  never  shine 
On  that  shadowy  stream  divine, 
Nor  the  sun's  intenser  ray, 
For  the  pure  air  itself  is  day. 
Billows,  with  their  feathery  crests 
Topped  with  silver,  strike  the  shore, 
And,  returning,  evermore 

Sink,  with  a  starry  gleam, 

Into  the  quiet  stream, 

With  the  golden  sand 

Of  that  bright  land 
Burning  upon  their  breasts. 
Over  that  river  waste  and  lone, 
Like  a  spirit,  steals  a  tone, 

With  a  sound  of  sighing, 
Sad  as  the  night-wind's  saddest  moan 

In  the  aisles  of  forests  dying ; 


THE  PILGRIMAGE   INTO    THULE.  8 1 

And  the  dim  waters'  rippling  swell 
Rings  like  the  chiming  of  a  bell. 

Ghastly  forms  are  gliding  through 

The  silent  deeps  of  that  lone  flood ; 

Not  like  things  of  flesh  and  blood, 
But  with  ever-changing  hue, 
Silently  they  come  and  go, 
Gliding  softly  to  and  fro; 
And  under  the  arms  of  trees 
That  swing  without  a  breeze, 
Over  the  sparkling  brim, 
Making  a  twilight  soft  and  dim, 

A  haze  of  mingled  red  and  gray, 
Pale  and  purple  shadows  glide 
Softly  down  the  river-side, 
With  a  swelling,  changing  motion, 

Like  the  rack  of  a  stormy  day 
Traversing  the  airy  ocean. 

They  who  the  silent  land  would  view 
Must  pass  that  thin,  wan  water  through, 
Must  climb  the  banks  where  poppies  dream, 
With  dim  eyes  turned  upon  the  stream, 
Must  part  the  branches  intertwined 
Of  the  trees  that  wave  without  a  wind, 
And  over  the  desolate  fields  pass  on, 
Erratic  and  alone. 

Silently  the  wanderers  stood, 
Gazing  on  the  shining  flood  ; 
Long  there  they  stood,  and  frequently 
Amid  their  silence  they  would  sigh ; 
D* 


82  THE   PILGRIMAGE   INTO    THULE. 

For  here,  as  where  we  yield  our  breath 

By  the  black  rushing  river  of  death, 

All  companionship  must  part ; 

Each  hence  must  wear  a  widowed  heart, 

Feeding  the  inward  fire  alway 

As  best  in  solitude  he  may. 

Mute,  as  in  a  dreamy  trance, 

Each  turned  on  each  his  darkened  glance ; 

They  pressed  each  other's  hands,  and  gave 

Their  salt  tears  to  the  vacant  wave ; 

Then,  with  spontaneous  impulse  strong, 

Their  misery  broke  forth  into  song ; 

The  strain  with  melancholy  swell 

Along  the  water  rose  and  fell ; 

It  sounded,  more  than  I  can  say, 

Like  night-wind  in  a  ruin  gray, 

Where  the  living  would  venture  scarce  to  pray, 

And  only  the  dead  dwell  fearlessly : 

"Farewell!  farewell! 
Sun-lighted,  vanishing  scenes  of  youth, 
Young  love,  delightful  friendship,  trust,  and  truth, 
Farewell ! 

"Ah,  who  can  tell 

How  the  heart  stouns  that  cannot  stay 
With  the  sweet  things  to  which  the  lips  must  say 
Farewell  ? 

"The  dim  waves  swell, 
And,  siren-singing,  glance  along; 
Beyond  the  flood  the  beckoning  shadows  throng. 
Farewell !" 


THE  PILGRIMAGE   INTO    THULE.  83 

They  plunged,  they  sank;  their  voices  died 
Like  wind  along  the  flushing  tide  : 
Slowly  they  pass  ;  the  water  seems 
Like  waves  we  battle  in  our  dreams ; 
Anon  upon  the  bank  they  rise, 
Where  blossoms  sleep  with  half-shut  eyes ; 
They  mingle  with  the  shadows  dim 
Slow  moving  down  the  river's  brim ; 
They  part  the  branches  intertwined 
Of  the  trees  that  wave  without  a  wind ; 
And,  each  by  each  unseen,  unknown, 
They  over  the  desolate  fields  pass  on, 
Erratic  and  alone. 


III. 

How  looks  the  land  beyond  the  trees 
A  swinging  to  the  unfelt  breeze? 
What  sight  to  see,  what  sound  to  hear, 
Delights  the  eye,  beguiles  the  ear? 
What  sideway  would  the  steps  incline 
From  the  strait  path  to  where  do  shine 
The  far-off  mountains  crystalline  ? 

Pale  illusions  manifold, 

Green  lights,  and  sudden  gleams  of  gold, 

Light  breaths  of  air,  that  chill  with  dread, 

Like  to  a  spirit's  windy  tread, 

Gray  shapes  that  wander  shadowless, — • 

The  phantoms  they  that  still  distress 

The  dreams  of  fever  and  excess, — 

March  forth  and  vanish,  and  again 

Take  form  and  vanish  on  the  plain  : 

-'   '"C "j--;>  jL"'*  J-- 
if^      OF  riir 

(n7!rJ7ER 


84  THE  PILGRIMAGE   INTO    THULE. 

Like  vapors  that  in  calms  at  sea 

Wheel  o'er  the  ocean  silently. 

No  sound,  and  yet  a  tone ;  no  sound, 

Yet  a  strange  music  hovering  round ; 

The  ghost  of  a  deep  organ-swell 

Vibrating  in  a  wild  farewell ; 

A  wandering  music,  that  doth  start 

Strange  echoes  in  the  listener's  heart ; 

And  yet  no  sound,  and  all  things  seem 

The  faint  reflections  of  a  dream, 

Indistinct,  impalpable 

As  shadows  in  a  flowing  rill, — 

As  the  dilating  shapes  that  fly 

Before  the  gazer's  glazing  eye, 

Fixed  on  the  deep-blue  summer  sky. 

Sloping  hills,  with  glades  between, 

Where  low,  fresh  plants  are  waving  green, 

Such  plants  as  earliest  decay, — 

As  spring  and  wither  in  a  day, — 

And,  shedding  their  fragrant  leafy  showers, 

Grow  round  all  perishable  flowers, 

Colored  with  such  flaunting  dyes 

As  paint  the  rosiest  evening  skies : 

But  never  there,  like  sprinkled  snow, 

The  golden-hearted  daisies  grow ; 

Never  springs  the  violet  blue, 

Nor  the  primrose,  dipt  in  dew, 

Breathing  delicate  perfume 

Through  the  forest's  sad  cathedral  gloom ; 

Nor  the  manifold  array 

Of  modest,  nameless  blossoms  gay, 

Strewn  on  the  woodland  lavishly. 


THE  PILGRIMAGE   INTO    THULE.  85 

Such  is  the  scene.    Alas  for  him 
Who  lingered  with  the  phantoms  dim  ! 
Alas  for  him  who  drank  delight 
From  the  thin  air  serenely  bright ! — 
For  him  who  turned  his  faithless  eyes 
From  the  blue  mountains  and  the  skies 
Down  on  the  flowers'  seducing  dyes ! 

Yes,  there  was  one  of  the  Pilgrims  three — 

One  of  that  wandering  companie — 

Who  yielded  to  the  subtile  charm 

Of  the  heavy  odors,  sweet  and  warm, 

Who  willingly  his  steps  did  stay 

To  pluck  the  flaunting  blossoms  gay, 

Who  melted  to  the  fatal  spell 

That  came,  with  melancholy  swell, 

On  the  low,  soundless,  sad  "  Farewell." 

Through  his  heart  and  through  his  brain 

Pierced  the  fine  scents  and  spirit  strain ; 

Drunken  with  sweets,  with  dazzled  eye, 

He  wandered  on  unwittingly. 

Dimmer  did  his  eye  become ; 

In  his  ear  a  drowsy  hum ; 

His  heart  grew  faint,  his  limbs  grew  numb ; 

Wearier  every  step  did  fall, 

Tangled  in  the  verdure  tall ; 

In  the  grass,  waving  green  and  dank, 

He  longed  and  longed  to  lie  at  rest, 
Till  sleep,  upon  a  shadowed  bank, 

Folded  him  to  her  breast. 

Then  upon  his  charmed  slumber 
Drooping  blossoms  without  number 
8 


86  THE   PILGRIMAGE   INTO    THULE. 

Did  their  fatal  dews  distill, 
And  a  tinkling,  drowsy  rill 
Beside  him  ever  seemed  to  sing, 
"  Sleep  on,  sleep  on, — 
All  fears  begone, 
For  here  'tis  always  spring." 
All  too  late,  alas  !  he  knows 
How  deadly  is  that  sweet  repose. 
Vainly  at  bay  he  strives  to  keep 
Insidious  and  deceitful  sleep. 
Vainly  he  strains  his  closing  eyes 
To  the  blue  mountains  and  the  skies. 
Too  late  !  he  sinks — he  faints — he  dies  ! 
So,  in  music  and  perfume,  sweet  death 
Beareth  away  his  breath. 

And  his  spirit  hath  become 

Of  that  sad  bright  land  a  part. 
Evermore,  in  murmurs  strange, 
Through  the  air  his  voice  shall  range, 
And  the  creeping  winds  shall  whisper 

Of  the  beatings  of  his  heart ; 
But  his  name  may  not  be  known. 
All  unhonored  and  alone, 

Lifeless  he  shall  lie, 

While  the  strong  Monarch,  from  whose  eyes 
The  spectre-host  affrighted  flies, 

Unheeded  pass  him  by. 


IV. 

Sterner  of  heart,  of  mightier  frame, 
Whom  neither  sight  nor  sound  may  tame, 


THE   PILGRIMAGE   INTO    THULE.  87 

Must  he  be,  the  wanderer  bold, 

Whose  steps  no  glamour  may  delay 
Within  the  land  of  shadows  gray, 

Of  delusions  manifold ; 

Who  keeps  his  eyes,  with  fixed  intent, 

Far  off  upon  the  distance  bent, 

Where,  cleaving  the  cerulean  skies, 
The  crystal  hills  arise. 

Yet  even  the  mightiest  soul  may  stray, 
May  wander,  or  be  wiled  away. 
Who  longeth  in  the  least  degree 
For  lawless  Passion's  company, 
And  cleaveth  not  through  joy  and  pain 
To  Virtue  and  her  spotless  train, 
Although  his  path  be  gaily  boune 
As  meadows  in  the  month  of  June, 
He  cannot  tell,  he  doth  not  know, 
What  region  of  unheard-of  woe 
May  lie  the  blossoming  sod  below. 

For  midway  to  the  mountains  clear 
The  smiling  land  is  false  and  drear ; 
How  beautiful  with  flowers  that  blow  ! 
How  beautiful  with  tints  that  glow ! 
Alas  !  and  yet  how  full  of  woe  ! 
From  the  strait  and  narrow  way 
There  is  a  path  that  leads  astray, 
And  of  the  twain  survivors  one 
Adown  that  treacherous  track  has  gone. 
With  slow  but  sure  descent  he  strayed 
Into  the  mingled  light  and  shade ; 
With  false  and  troubled  joy  beguiled, 
He  trod  the  winding  path  and  wild, 


88  THE  PILGRIMAGE  INTO    THULE. 

Slow  roving  on,  withouten  dread, 

With  roses  arching  overhead, 

And  grass  beneath  so  smooth  and  sheen, 

So  even,  and  so  dewy  green, 

That  still  the  foot  was  fain  to  press 

The  verdure  in  its  tenderness. 

All  sights,  all  sounds  that  heap  with  fire 

The  unholy  altar  of  Desire 

Thronged  on  his  solitude ;  each  flower 

Was  laden  with  a  limpid  shower 

Of  poisonous  nectar,  strong  to  start 

Distraction  in  the  taster's  heart ; 

And  there  did  glide,  the  wanderer  nigh, 

A  maiden  with  a  shadowed  eye 

And  opened  arms  and  frequent  sigh : 

The  Angel  of  delight  seemed  she, 
Yet  was  not, — but  a  luring  fiend, 

As  false  as  ecstasy. 

Each  winding  of  the  loaning  green 
Disclosed  a  sweeter,  fairer  scene  , 
A  fairer  scene  seemed  still  behind, 
Where'er  the  labyrinth  might  wind; 
And  near,  and  near,  and  drawing  near, 
The  hills  were  crystalline  and  clear, — 
The  beautiful  blue  mountains,  where 
The  light  of  heaven  is  in  the  air, 

On  whose  bright  apex  all  would  stand 
Who  ever  drank,  with  strange  delight, 
The  sparkling  air,  serenely  bright, 

Of  that  enchanted  land ; 
Till  suddenly  the  maiden  mild, 
Whose  loosened  charms  the  wretch  beguiled, 


THE  PILGRIMAGE   INTO    THULE.  89 

Swelled  like  a  cloud  in  heaven ;  her  form 
Became  the  presence  of  a  storm, 
Charged  as  with  lightning;  hurrying  past, 
And  shrieking,  she  dissolved,  as  flies 
A  tempest  through  the  brazen  skies 
On  August's  burning  blast. 

Beneath  his  feet — compelled  to  stay, 
Struck  motionless,  in  blank  dismay — 
The  grass,  the  solid  ground,  gave  way, 
As  to  an  earthquake's  tread,  and,  far 
As  earth  from  heaven,  as  star  from  star, 
A  gulf  sank  down,  whose  yawning  breast 
Stirred  with  tumultuous  wild  unrest, 
Where  roared  devouring  flame,  where  rung 
Imprisoned  wind,  whence  darkness  sprung ; 
And  through  the  waste  of  lurid  gloom 
The  fitful  flames  and  shadows  brown 
Dragged  the  lost  wanderer  down. 

Going  down  as  in  a  dream, 
With  choking  breath,  and  stifled  scream, 
Swift  going  down, — with  speedier  flight 
Than  meteor  dropping  from  the  moon 
Streams  through  the  shadow  of  our  night, — 
Swift  going  down,  he  heard  around 
Of  caverned  wind  the  hollow  sound, 
The  roar  of  a  pursuing  flame, 
That  nothing  e'er  can  quench  or  tame; 
He  heard,  with  an  o'ermastering  fear, 
With  shrinking  and  with  aching  ear, 
With  fainting  sense  and  dizzy  brain, 
And  heart  a  breaking  with  its  pain, — • 


90  THE  PILGRIMAGE  INTO    THULE. 

Till  suddenly  the  spell  did  break: 
The  dreamer  stood,  unharmed,  awake, 
Upon  the  margin  of  a  lake. 

An  image  seems  that  realm  below, 
A  strange  exaggerated  show, 
Of  the  still  land  of  fire  and  snow. 
The  winds  are  odors ;  every  air 
Has  fragrance  more  than  it  can  bear, 
And  faints  and  dies  upon  the  lake, — 
Yet  the  sweet  burden  cannot  break 
The  surface  of  the  glassy  lake. 
The  drooping  flowers,  of  dusky  dyes, 
From  whence  the  sickening  scents  arise, 
Are  rotting  in  the  sedges  rank 
That  fringe  the  dark  and  sleepy  bank; 
The  shadows  of  the  hills  divine, 
Of  the  mountains  crystalline, 
Inverted  and  bedimmed  appear 
Down,  in  the  water  still  and  drear; 
The  path  beside  the  silent  wave 
Is  lapsed  in  shadow,  like  the  grave, 
O'erhung  by  mossy  rocks,  and  hoar, 
Whose  rugged  brows,  for  giant  plume, 
Have  forests  of  uhwaving  gloom, 
Lifeless  on  that  sad  shore ; 
And  ever  a  dense  and  dismal  haze 
Shuts  in  the  baffled  wanderer's  gaze. 

Onward,  onward,  and  away, 
Must  the  fated  pilgrim  stray. 
He  cannot  pause,  he  cannot  rest; 
There  is  a  demon  in  his  breast, 


THE   PILGRIMAGE   INTO    THULE. 

The  grand  old  woods,  the  dreary  shore, 

He  sees  around  his  steps  no  more ; 

From  under  precipices  black, 

Into  a  desert  winds  the  track, 

Constantly  keeping  by  the  brim 

Of  the  tideless  water  dim ; 

And  inky  shadows  move  and  rest, 

Like  spectral  barks  by  fiends  possest, 

On  the  sullen  water's  breast, 

Still  thickening,  till,  by  slow  degree, 

The  surface  of  the  moaning  sea 

Doth  the  frightful  semblance  take 

Of  a  seething,  pitchy  lake, 
With  gusts  of  smoke,  and  spouting  flame, 

Spread  o'er  it  constantly. 

Wide-spread,  dark-winged  Ruin  broods 
Over  the  desolate  blasted  shore ; 

Through  leagues  on  leagues  of  leafless  woods 
The  eddying  tempests  pour, 
And  boil,  and  whirl,  with  sullen  roar, 

As  seas  tempestuous  surge  and  swell 
Round  the  cold  islands,  bare  and  low, 
The  death -white  realms  of  frost  and  snow, 

Where  nothing  but  the  sea-fowl  dwell, 
On  Lapland's  icy  shore. 

Low  rolling  hills,  with  dreary  glades, 
Where,  as  it  springs,  the  verdure  fades, 
And  droopingly  endureth  through 
That  dead  existence  that  doth  bring 
No  heat,  no  cold,  no  fall,  no  spring, 
Nor  morn,  nor  night,  nor  sun,  nor  dew ; 


92  THE   PILGRIMAGE   INTO    THULE. 

Dry  winds — the  moistureless  winds  that  parch 
The  hacked  and  husky  throat  of  March — 

Like  crackling  flame,  blow  constantly, 
And  into  thirsty  ashes  scorch 

The  surface  of  that  sad  countrie. 

On  those  barren  hills  and  bleak, 

By  the  borders  of  the  lake, 

The  seething  sulphurous  lake, — or  whiles 

In  the  blighted  forest  aisles, — 

The  monarch  of  that  region  lone 

Keeps  crown  and  sceptre,  court  and  throne. 

Here  Madness  reigns ;  and  oh,  alas  ! 

The  pallid  subjects  that  obey 

His  changeful  and  capricious  sway, 

How  ghastly  and  how  wild  are  they  ! 

Lo  !  where  the  kingly  shadow  stands, 
His  form  dilating  in  the  air, 
His  arms  and  fevered  bosom  bare, 
Forever  with  convulsive  hands 
The  garment  rending  that  doth  swathe 
His  large  limbs  swoln,  with  frantic  wrath 
(That  garment  wild,  that  airy  shroud, 
A  dark,  tempestuous,  streaming  cloud), 
Strewing  the  fragments  on  the  gale 
In  shapes  like  shattered  dreams  to  sail, 
While  the  dread  lake,  the  mountains  dry, 
The  leafless  woods,  the  sunless  sky, 
Ring  to  his  tuneless  laughter  loud. 

The  crown  his  withered  brows  have  on 
Is  woven  of  living,  sparkling  flame  ; 


THE   PILGRIMAGE   INTO    THULE. 

And  many  a  laugh,  and  shriek,  and  moan, 

He  utters,  as  his  mighty  frame 
Quivers  all  over  with  the  pain 
Sharp-stinging  through  his  tortured  brain. 
His  wild  and  wandering  eye,  alight 

With  blue  beams  of  the  watery  moon, 
Sheds  o'er  that  barren  coast  a  blight, 

Where  ruin's  stranded  wrecks  are  strewn, 
A  radiance  faint,  and  shimmering  far, 
And  fitful,  as  a  falling  star. 

And  oh,  and  oh,  the  frightful  forms 

A  crouching  at  the  monarch's  feet ! 
Or  oftentimes,  like  trees  in  storms, 

In  tempests  that  arise  by  night, 
Aloft  their  shadowy  arms  they  fling, 
While  hoarse  and  high  their  voices  ring 

In  shoutings  of  insane  delight. 
Or,  like  dry  leaves  whirling  past 
On  the  chill  November  blast, 
They  appear  and  disappear, 
Sapless,  aimless,  blank,  and  sere, — 
So  borne  aloft,  or  rustling  low, 
With  empty  joy,  or  viewless  woe, 

In  windy  phantasy  they  go. 

I  dread,  I  dread  his  doom  to  trace, 
Or  say  where  lies  his  resting-place, 

Who,  dropping  through  that  gulf  amain, 
Down  rushing  like  descending  wind, 
Left  Hope  and  Memory  dead  behind, 

Stretched  on  the  upper  plain. 


93 


94  THE  PILGRIMAGE   INTO    THULE. 

I  saw  the  imperial  shadow's  glance 
Light  in  his  heart  ecstatic  trance; 
I  heard  his  shoutings  alternate 
With  moments  when  the  wings  of  fate 
Dimmed  his  mute  features  desolate  ; 

Beside  the  lake  I  saw  him  stand, 
When  his  poor  heart,  within  his  breast, 

Lay,  with  the  fever  and  the  flame, 
Quenched  in  cold  ashes  and  dull  rest, 
Crooning  a  sad,  heart-breaking  strain, 
That  somehow  only  did  remain 
Of  all  the  dreams  of  joy  or  pain 

Lost  with  the  upper  land. 
I  veiled  my  sight ; 
I  would  not  look ;  I  came  not  nigh. 
A  dark  resolve  was  in  his  eye. 
Ah,  woe  !  ah,  woe  ! 
That  one  so  young,  so  fair,  so  bright, 

So  desolate  should  die  ! 

Sweet  Saviour,  shield  us  from  that  shore, 
Where  many  a  grand  high  soul  has  gone, 
To  make  the  echoes  mourn  and  moan, 
With  "  Lost !  oh,  lost !" — for  evermore. 
Alas  for  him  beguiled  to  tread 
The  pathway  to  the  living  dead, 
For  him  condemned  his  weird  to  dree 
By  wandering  in  that  sad  countrie, 
With  all  its  ghastly  companie ! 
My  heart  doth  quake,  my  flesh  doth  creep, 
And  bitter  tears  I  oft  could  weep, 
To  think  how  many  a  child  of  song 
By  that  black  wave  has  wandered  long, 


THE  PILGRIMAGE   INTO    THULE. 

And  moaned  to  see  the  hills  divine, 

The  blissful  mountains  crystalline, 

Beneath  the  dim  sad  waters  shine, 

Where  ne'er  his  feet  their  tops  might  tread, 

Where  ne'er  the  beams  of  heaven  could  shed 

Their  radiant  blessings  on  his  head. 

Oh,  shield  us  with  protecting  hand 

From  the  dread  presence  and  command 

Of  him  who  rules  that  frightful  land. 


v. 

Vapors  of  unsounded  fold 
O'er  the  sullen  vale  be  rolled  ! 
Cloudy  oceans,  fathomless, 
Wash  o'er  the  land's  forlorn  distress  ! 
Wing  up  !  wing  up  !  with  lightened  brain 
Seek  we  the  sun-bright  land  again, — 
The  land  where  changing  colors  glow, 
The  land  where  fragrant  blossoms  blow, 
The  pleasant  land  of  fire  and  snow. 

And  where  is  he, — where  wanders  he, 

The  last  of  that  knight-errant  three? 

In  the  land  of  shadows  gray, 

Nothing  might  his  steps  delay ; 

Soothing  sounds,  enchanting  sight, 

All  illusions  of  delight, 

Could  not  ruffle  nor  control 

The  strong  smooth  current  of  his  soul ! — 

They  came,  they  went,  they  left  him  free ; 

They  moved  with  no  more  mastery 

Than  wind  upon  a  frozen  sea ; 


95 


9 6  THE   PILGRIMAGE  INTO    THULE. 

t 
And  God,  whose  presence  aids  the  brave, 

Was  merciful  his  steps  to  save 

From  the  dark  descent  through  night 

To  madness  and  insane  delight. 

He  struggles  on  ;  his  heart  is  high  ; 
A  quenchless  fire  is  in  his  eye ; 
By  his  flushed  cheek  you  may  know 
Of  his  blood's  impulsive  flow; 
By  his  forehead  bare  and  brown, 
By  his  brow's  unbending  frown, 
His  bitten  lips,  his  air  of  pride, 
His  nervous  form  and  steady  stride, 
His  earnest  glance  to  where  do  shine 
The  starry  mountains  crystalline, 

His  streaming  locks  and  even  breath, 
You  well  may  guess  that  naught  shall  stay 
His  upward  and  unwearied  way, 

Except  the  shaft  of  Death. 

As  he  wends,  the  pleasures  fly 

Abashed  before  his  fiery  eye ; 

Lo,  as  he  wends,  with  scornful  frown 

He  treads  delights  and  passions  down. 

O  hero-hearted,  oh,  for  thee 

My  sympathy,  my  prayers  shall  be. 

Press  on  !  press  on  !  the  flowers  of  earth, 

Their  beauties  are  but  little  worth ; 

Their  iris-tints  the  sun  doth  share, 

Their  fragrance  dies  upon  the  air. 

Press  on,  press  on,  where  naught  shall  mar 

The  light  of  thine  ascending  star, 

Where  thou  shalt  drink  without  alloy 

Serene  delight  and  holy  joy, 


THE  PILGRIMAGE   INTO    THULE. 

Where  thou  beneath  the  beams  divine 
In  ceaseless  rapture  shalt  recline 
Upon  the  mountains  crystalline. 

Ah,  who  may  tell  ?  ah,  few  may  prove 
The  glory  of  that  realm  of  love, — 
The  visions  that  enchant  the  eye, 
On  those  clear  tops  that  touch  the  sky, 
The  streams  upon  the  mountains  blue, 
Sweet  falling  down  like  summer  dew. 

Bursting  on  the  dazzled  sight, 

Rise  the  shining  hosts  of  heaven, 
Rank  over  rank,  in  order  bright, 
Light  as  the  forms  of  gossamer 
That  sail  the  dewy-glancing  air, 

On  morning  breezes  driven. 
They  bend  their  golden  harps  above, 

And  the  strains  that  ceaseless  flow 
Fall  upon  the  ear  like  love, 

Told  in  whispers  soft  and  low. 
Oh,  those  sweet  strains !  all  sounds  that  be 
Are  blended  in  their  harmony. 
The  anthem  of  far-sounding  seas, 
The  carol  of  the  wandering  breeze, 
The  tunes  of  birds,  the  vesper  low 
Of  rivers  singing  as  they  flow, 
And  human  voices, — all  do  seem 
To  mingle  in  the  mighty  theme : 
"  Welcome  to  thee  ! 
All  hail  to  thee, 
Pilgrim  of  dreams,  and  laureled  heir 

Of  Immortality!" 
E  9 


97 


98  THE  PILGRIMAGE   INTO    THULE. 

.  Tears — tears  of  infinite  delight 

From  the  gazer's  eye  do  flow, 
Ravished  with  the  wondrous  sight 

And  the  music  low ; 
Glimpses  of  the  light  that  falls 
On  the  high  celestial  walls 
Through  the  ranks  of  glory  quiver, 

Toned  in  many  a  rainbow  wreath, 
And  like  sunlit  amber  shiver 

On  the  crystal  hills  beneath. 

Press  on  !  press  on  !  though  long  the  way, 
Though  its  dangers  none  may  say, 
Though  earth's  greenest  leaves  grow  gray, 
And  earth's  sweetest  flowers  decay, 
Though  earth's  pleasures  vain  must  be, 
O  hero-hearted,  unto  thee, 
Press  on  !  press  on  !  the  hills  are  near, 
The  mountains  crystalline  and  clear, 
The  beautiful  blue  mountains,  where 
The  light  of  heaven  is  in  the  air. 
Press  on  !  and  thou  shalt  yet  recline, 
In  crowned  regality  divine, 
Upon  the  mountains  crystalline. 


MARY  GRAY.  99 


MARY   GRAY. 

O'ER  the  lake  the  twilight  lingers, 

Like  a  veil  on  beauty's  breast, 
And  the  eve,  with  rosy  ringers, 

Folds  the  curtain  of  the  West ; 
Sweet !  where  yon  bright  scenes  await  thee, 

While  we  wander  side  by  side, 
I'll  a  simple  tale  relate  thee 

How  a  maiden  loved  and  died. 

Let  my  arm,  love,  circle  round  thee ; — 

Oh,  thine  eyes  are  wondrous  bright ! 
Sure  some  magic  strange  has  bound  me, 

So  serene  thou  look'st  to-night ! 
On  thy  cheek  the  love-light  burning 

Shames  the  blush  of  parting  day : 
Just  so,  in  her  life's  sweet  morning, 

Looked  the  gentle  Mary  Gray. 

In  a  vale  retired  and  lonely, 

Like  a  flower,  that  maiden  grew, 
Where  the  western  breezes  only 

Kissed  her  with  their  lips  of  dew ; 
Where  by  day  the  greenwood  filled  her 

With  sweet  fancies  warm  and  wild, 
And  by  night  the  streamlet  lulled  her 

Into  slumber  like  a  child. 


TOO  MARY  GRAY. 

Glossy  were  her  locks  so  golden  ; 

Radiant  were  her  eyes  so  blue ; 
Such  as  once,  in  ages  olden, 

Grecian  blades  to  battle  drew  ; 
Round  her  lips,  with  laughter  merry, 

Dream-like  graces  seemed  to  band  : 
Oh,  she  looked  a  woodland  fairy, 

And  her  vale  a  fairy  land  ! 

With  its  own  pure  love-light  gleaming, 

Shone  her  heart,  a  lonely  star, 
From  her  bosom's  heaven-deeps  beaming 

On  the  dreaming  world  afar, 
Or  a  flower,  with  leaves  yet  folded, 

Glistening  in  the  morning  ray, 
Till  a  wandering  breeze  unrolled  it 

And  its  nectar  drank  away. 

To  that  happy  vale  a  stranger, 

Idly  roving,  chanced  to  come, — 
One  whom  crime  had  made  a  ranger 

From  his  distant  island  home; 
Palled  with  Pleasure's  wanton  dances, 

From  her  courts  he  turned  away, 
And  in  evil  hour  his  glances 

Chanced  to  rest  on  Mary  Gray. 

Love  was  in  his  dark  eyes  shining, — 
Love, — but  love  corrupt  and  vile  ! 

And  like  flowers  his  lips  entwining 

Wreathed  each  sweet  and  honeyed  smile. 

Deep,  but  gentle,  bold,  but  wary, 
Skilled  in  each  seductive  art, 


MARY  GRAY. 

Was  it  strange  if  trusting  Mary 
Gave  to  him  her  gentle  heart  ? 

Oh,  how  lightly,  pleasure-laden, 

Danced  the  sunny  hours  along, 
While  he  lured  the  simple  maiden 

With  sweet  lore  of  tale  and  song  ! 
Steeped  each  sense  in  bliss  entrancing, 

Every  thought  with  passion  rife, 
Every  pulse  with  rapture  dancing, 

Life  was  love,  and  love  was  life  ! 

But  there  came  a  dread  awaking 

From  that  trance  of  wild  delight, 
When  her  heart,  with  anguish  breaking, 

Saw  its  dream  dissolve  in  night. 
She  had  been  the  streamlet  sparkling 

In  the  sunlight,  warm  and  free ; 
Reft  of  him,  her  course  was  darkling 

Onward  to  eternity. 

Lovely  was  the  landscape  round  them, 

Wrapt  in  morning's  balmy  joy, 
When  the  flowery  chain  that  bound  them 

Snapt  he  like  a  baby's  toy. 
As  of  life  the  words  had  reft  her, 

Tearless,  motionless  she  stood, 
While  with  careless  smile  he  left  her, 

Standing  in  the  shady  wood. 

"  Now  no  longer  I  delude  thee," 
Thus  the  base  deceiver  cried  ; 

"  See,  the  farmer  boy  that  wooed  thee 

Now  may  take  thee  for  his  bride. ' ' 

9* 


102  MARY  GRAY. 

This  was  when  serene  September 

Nursed  her  flowers  on  field  and  brae  ; 

And  the  snows  of  cold  December 
Wrapt  the  grave  of  Mary  Gray. 

Like  a  lily  rudely  broken 

When  the  winds  in  fury  rave, 
With  her  sorrows  all  unspoken 

Sank  she  to  her  home,  the  grave. 
None  to  soothe  her  tearless  anguish, 

No  confiding  bosom  nigh, 
What  was  left  her  but  to  languish 

Out  her  weary  hours  and  die  ? 

Still  the  tall  green  woods  are  waving 

O'er  the  fair  and  flowery  scene, 
Still  the  rivulet  keeps  laving, 

Laughingly,  its  banks  of  green, 
And  the  breezes,  warm  and  airy, 

Kiss  the  blossoms  as  they  nod, 
But  that  valley's  gentle  fairy 

Slumbers  underneath  its  sod. 

Dost  thou  like  the  tale  I've  told  thee 

Of  that  flower's  untimely  blight? 
Oh,  no  traitor  arms  enfold  thee 

In  this  warm  embrace  to-night. 
Tears,  sweet  love  ?     Thy  heart  flows  over  ; 

Let  me  kiss  those  gems  away; — 
All  are  not  like  that  false  lover, 

All  not  wronged  like  Mary  Gray ! 


EVENING.  103 


EVENING. 

THE  air  is  chill,  and  the  day  grows  late, 

And  the  clouds  come  in  through  the  Golden  Gate ; 

Phantom  fleets  they  seem  to  me, 

From  a  shoreless  and  unsounded  sea ; 

Their  shadowy  spars,  and  misty  sails, 

Unshattered,  have  weathered  a  thousand  gales : 

Slow  wheeling,  lo  !  in  squadrons  gray, 

They  part,  and  hasten  along  the  bay, 

Each  to  its  anchorage  finding  way. 

Where  the  hills  of  SaKcelito  swell, 

Many  in  gloom  may  shelter  well ; 

And  others — behold — unchallenged  pass 

By  the  silent  guns  of  Alcatraz : 

No  greetings,  of  thunder  and  flame,  exchange 

The  armed  isle  and  the  cruisers  strange. 

Their  meteor  flags,  so  widely  blown, 

Were  blazoned  in  a  land  unknown ; 

So,  charmed  from  war,  or  wind,  or  tide, 

Along  the  quiet  wave  they  glide. 

What  bear  these  ships  ?  what  news,  what  freight 

Do  they  bring  us  through  the  Golden  Gate  ? 

Sad  echoes  to  words  in  gladness  spoken, 

And  withered  hopes  to  the  poor  heart -broken  : 

Oh,  how  many  a  venture  we 

Have  rashly  sent  to  the  shoreless  sea  ! 


104 


EVENING. 


How  many  an  hour  have  you  and  I, 

Sweet  friend,  in  sadness  seen  go  by, 

While  our  eager,  longing  thoughts  were  roving, 

Over  the  waste,  for  something  loving, 

Something  rich,  and  chaste,  and  kind, 

To  brighten  and  bless  a  lonely  mind, 

And  only  waited  to  behold 

Ambition's  gems,  affection's  gold, 

Return,  as  "remorse,"  and  "a  broken  vow," 

In  such  ships  of  mist  as  I  see  now ! 

The  air  is  chill,  and  the  day  grows  late, 

And  the  clouds  come  in  through  the  Golden  Gate, 

Freighted  with  sorrow,  heavy  with  woe ; 

But  these  shapes  that  cluster,  dark  and  low, 

To-morrow  shall  be  all  aglow  ! 

In  the  blaze  of  the  coming  morn  these  mists, 

Whose  weight  my  heart  in  vain  resists, 

Will  brighten  and  shine  and  soar  to  heaven 

In  thin  white  robes,  like  souls  forgiven ; 

For  Heaven  is  kind,  and  everything, 

As  well  as  a  winter,  has  a  spring. 

So,  praise  to  God  !  who  brings  the  day 

That  shines  our  regrets  and  fears  away ; 

For  the  blessed  morn  I  can  watch  and  wait, 

While  the  clouds  come  in  through  the  Golden  Gate. 


OLIVIA.  105 


OLIVIA. 


WHAT  are  the  long  waves  singing  so  mournfully  ever- 
more? 
What  are  they  singing  so  mournfully  as  they  weep  on 

the  sandy  shore  ? 

"  Olivia,  oh,  Olivia  !" — what  else  ca'n  it  seem  to  be? — 
"Olivia,  lost  Olivia,  will  never  return  to  thee  !" 
"Olivia,  lost  Olivia!" — what  else  can  the  sad  song 

be?— 

"Weep  and  mourn,  she  will  not  return,  she  cannot 
return  to  thee  !" 

n. 

And  strange  it  is  when  the  low  winds  sigh,  and  strange 
when  the  loud  winds  blow", 

In  the  rustle  of  trees,  in  the  roar  of  the  storm,  in  the 
sleepiest  streamlet's  flow, 

Forever,  from  ocean  or  river,  ariseth  the  same  sad 
moan, — 

"  She  sleeps ;  let  her  sleep  ;  wake  her  not.  It  were 
best  she  should  rest,  and  alone." 

Forever  the  same  sad  requiem  comes  up  from  the  sor- 
rowful sea, 

For  the  lovely,  the  lost  Olivia,  who  cannot  return  to 
me. 

E* 


106  OLIVIA. 

ill. 

Alas!  I  fear  'tis  not  in  the  air,  or  the  sea,  or  the  trees, 

— that  strain  : 
I  fear  'tis  a  wrung  heart  aching,  and  the  throb  of  a 

tortured  brain ; 
And  the  shivering  whisper  of  startled  leaves,  and  the 

sob  of  the  waves  as  they  roll, — 
I  fear  they  are  only  the  echo  of  the  song  of  a  suffering 

soul, — 
Are  only  the  passionless  echo  of  the  voice  that  is  ever 

with  me : 
"  The   lovely,  the   lost   Olivia   will   never   return   to 

thee!" 

IV. 

I  stand  in  the  dim  gray  morning,  where  once  I  stood, 
to  mark, 

Gliding  away  along  the  bay,  like  a  bird,  her  white- 
winged  bark ; 

And  when  through  the  Golden  Gate  the  sunset  ra- 
diance rolled, 

And  the  tall  masts  melted  to  thinnest  threads  in  the 
glowing  haze  of  gold, 

I  said,  "To  thine  arms  I  give  her,  O  kind  and  shining 
sea, 

And  in  one  long  moon  from  this  June  eve  you  shall 
let  her  return  to  me. ' ' 

v. 

But  the  wind  from  the  far  spice  islands  came  back, 

and  it  sang  with  a  sigh, — 
"The  ocean  is  rich  with  the  treasure  it  has  hidden 

from  you  and  the  sky." 


OLIVIA. 


107 


And  where,  amid  rocks  and  green  sea-weed,  the  storm 

and  the  tide  were  at  war, 
The  nightly-sought  waste  was  still  vacant  when  I  looked 

to  the  doud  and  the  star ; 
And  soon  the  sad  wind  and  dark  ocean  unceasingly 

sang  unto  me, 
"The   lovely,   the   lost   Olivia  will   never   return    to 

thee!" 


Dim  and  still  the  landscape  lies,  but   shadowless   as 

heaven, 
For  the   growing   morn  and   the  low-west  moon  on 

everything  shine  even. 
The  ghosts  of  the  lost  have  departed,  that  nothing  can 

ever  redeem, 
And  Nature,  in  light,  sweet  slumber,  is  dreaming  her 

morning  dream. 
'Tis  morn,  and  our  Lord  has  awakened,  and  the  souls 

of  the  blessed  are  free. 
Oh,  come  from  the  caves  of  the  ocean  !  Olivia,  return 

unto  me ! 

VII. 

What  thrills  me  ?  what  comes  near  me  ?     Do  I  stand 

on  the  sward  alone  ? 
Was  that  a  light  wind,  or  a  whisper?  a  touch,  or  the 

pulse  of  a  tone  ? 
Olivia !  whose  spells  from  my  slumber  my  broken  heart 

sway  and  control, 
At  length  bring'st  thou  death  to  me,  dearest,  or  rest  to 

my  suffering  soul  ? 


loS  AD  ALINE. 

No  sound  but  the  psalm  of  the  ocean  :   "  Bow  down  to 

the  solemn  decree, — 
The  lovely,  the  lost  Olivia  will  never  return  to  thee !" 

VIII. 

And  still  are  the  long  waves   singing  so  mournfully 

evermore ; 
Still  are  they  singing  so  mournfully  as  they  weep  on 

the  sandy  shore, — 

"Olivia,  lost  Olivia !"  so  ever  'tis  doomed  to  be, — 
"  Olivia,  lost  Olivia  will  never  return  to  thee  !" 
"Olivia,  lost  Olivia!" — what  else  could  the  sad  song 

be?— 
"  Weep  and  mourn,  she  will  not  return, — she  cannot 

return  to  thee!" 


ADALINE. 

THERE  were  two  lovers  long  ago, — 

Ah,  well-a-day  ! — 
Of  spirits  warm,  but  chaste  as  snow, — 

That  things  so  pure  should  pass  away  ! 
And  oft  alone  and  whispering  lowly, 
Among  the  woods  they  wandered  slowly, 
When  twilight  shades  were  sweet  and  holy; 
For  clearest  shine 

Love-glances  then,  like  thine, 

My  tender,  bright-eyed  Adaline  ! 
And  this  true  lover  and  the  maiden, 

In  ages  vanished,  lost  and  gone, 


AD  A  LINE. 

Made  for  themselves  a  dim  star-Aiden, 
All  in  the  silent  dawn. 

Oft  in  the  moon's  transparent  mist, — 

Ah,  well-a-day  !  — 
Before  the  sun  the  clouds  had  kist, — 

That  things  so  kind  should  pass  away  ! — 
They  met  while  stars  above  were  shining, 
Where  leaves  and  flowers  were  intertwining, 
Her  head  upon  his  breast  reclining, 
As  often  thine 

Reposes  upon  mine, 

My  fair,  my  peerless  Adaline  ! 
And  thus  the  lover  and  the  maiden, 

In  ages  vanished,  lost  and  gone, 
Dwelt  fearless  in  their  dim  star-Aiden, 

All  in  the  silent  dawn. 

He  saw  no  beauty,  she  no  truth, — 

Ah,  well-a-day  ! — 
Save  in  her  form  and  his  fresh  youth, — 

That  things  so  fond  should  pass  away  ! 
And,  sooth  to  say,  she  looked  serenely, 
Among  the  wet  leaves  glancing  greenly, 
With  her  fair  head  reclined  and  queenly, 
Though  not  like  thine, 

Not  with  thy  grace  divine, 

My  own  beloved  Adaline  ! 
So  the  fond  lover  and  the  maiden, 

In  ages  vanished,  lost  and  gone, 
Stood  dreaming  in  their  dim  star-Aiden, 

All  in  the  silent  dawn. 


109 


10 


HO  IN  ME  MORI  AM. 

They  loved,  and  they  were  blest ;  they  died,- 

Ah,  well-a-day  ! — 
The  bridegroom  and  his  fair  young  bride, — 

That  things  so  bright  should  fade  away  ! 
The  flowers  are  wet,  the  stars  are  gleaming ; 
They  sleep  while  all  around  is  beaming, 
Not  even  of  each  other  dreaming. 
Close,  closer  twine 

Thy  soft,  white  arms  in  mine. 

Oh,  could  I  save  thee,  Adaline ! 
Oh,  love  !  oh,  death  !     Alas  !  the  maiden 

And  lover,  in  the  ages  gone, 
Passed  from  their  pleasant,  dim  star-Aiden, 

Like  shadows  from  the  dawn. 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

"  Died,  on  the  i2th  of  February,  1858,  at  12  o'clock  noon,  in  the 
city  of  San  Francisco,  California,  Edward  Travers,  a  native  of  the 
County  Monaghan,  Ireland,  aged  24  years  and  n  months." 


"  WHOM  THE  GODS   LOVE    DIE  YOUNG." 


LET  the  holiest  dirge  be  sung  ; 
Let  the  saddest  peal  be  rung ; 
Pall  and  coffin,  hearse  and  plume, 
Marshal  round  the  untimely  tomb ; 
Mausoleum  and  effigy 
O'er  the  sleeper  build  and  lay ; 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

Broken  column,  sculptured  bust, 
Raise  above  the  unconscious  dust ; 
Newer  modes  of  grief  devise 
For  the  form  that  silent  lies. 
Raise  the  wildest  notes  of  woe 
O'er  the  darkened  star  below. 
He,  of  all  our  band  the  best, 
He  is  gathered  to  his  rest ; 
Of  our  joys  and  hopes  the  head, 
He  is  vanished, — he  is  dead  ! 

"  He  is  dead  !"     O  words  of  fear, 
Do  you  not  deceive  mine  ear? 
Can  a  grief  so  deep  be  shown 
In  a  passing  sigh  or  tone  ? 
Sudden — -solemn — unforeseen, 
Lo  !  the  tree  so  lately  green 
Lies,  a  scathed  and  blasted  thing, 
On  the  cold  earth  mouldering. 
O'er  the  rose  of  June  has  passed 
Winter's  unexpected  blast; 
Unpredicted  darkness  came 
O'er  the  sun's  meridian  flame; 
And  on  him  the  shadow  fell, 
Whom  so  many  loved  so  well. 
Not  a  breath  from  those  cold  lips, 
Darkening  in  death's  eclipse ; 
On  those  eyes  that  beamed  with  light, 
Weighs  the  leaden  seal  of  night ; 
And  the  heart  that  beat  so  bold, 
Ah,  how  silent,  and  how  cold  ! 
All  is  over, — all  is  done  ! 
Truest  brother, — fondest  son, — 


112  IN  ME  MORI  AM, 

Firmest  comrade, — lealest  friend, — 
Here  his  joys  and  sorrows  end. 
Lay  him  in  his  lowly  bed ; 
He  has  vanished, — he  is  dead  ! 

What  do  pall  and  plume  do  here  ? 
Pile  no  trappings  on  his  bier  1 
How  with  trophies  would  you  seek 
Grief  too  deep  for  words  to  speak  ? 
How  should  woe  like  ours  be  shown 
In  the  cold  sepulchral  stone  ? 
Lay  the  idle  gauds  aside, 
Bannered  pomp  and  stately  pride ; 
Plant  the  willow  o'er  his  grave, 
So  her  arms  shall  o'er  him  wave ; 
Sow  the  flowers  on  that  green  sod, 
That  his  feet  with  pleasure  trod ; 
And  the  hands  he  loved  to  press 
Shall  defend  their  tenderness, 
And  the  forms  he  longed  to  greet 
Round  the  holy  spot  shall  meet. 
Bursting  hearts  and  streaming  eyes 
Are  his  fittest  obsequies. 

All  is  o'er ;  and  now  no  more, 
In  the  valley,  on  the  hill, 

Or  where  we  were  wont  to  meet, 

Daily  on  the  city's  street 

While  the  morn  was  young  and  still, 

Shall  our  steps  in  peace  pass  on, 
Our  hearts  in  unison 

And  fraternal  feeling  beat ; 

For  a  cloud  has  passed  between, 

And  his  form  is  what  has  been, 


IN  ME  MORI  AM.  113 

And  his  name  is  but  a  breath 
From  the  waste  abyss  of  death. 
O'er  a  sea  to  us  unknown 
Has  his  bark  gone  forth  alone, 
And  upon  an  earthly  shore 
We  shall  meet  him — nevermore. 

Like  a  starbeam  pure  and  white, 
Like  a  harp-tone  on  the  night, 

Doth  a  hope  within  me  rise, 
That  beyond  the  fearful  shore 
Where  the  waves  of  ages  roar, 

Where  the  mortal  sobs  and  dies, 
In  a  land  of  light  and  peace, 
Where  the  wicked  troubling  cease, 
We  shall  yet  together  rest, 
On  our  Holy  Mother's  breast. 


114  DISUNION. 


DISUNION. 

THERE'S  a  sound  on  the  wind,  there's  a  shrill,  chilling 

cry 

Going  past  on  the  blast,  through  the  comfortless  sky ; 
In  the  night  is  a  wailing,  that  keenly  doth  clove 
Through  my  heart,  like  the  pain  of  an  unhappy  love ; 
And  the  nation,  in  slumber  she  will  not  resign, 
Is  vexed  and  disturbed  by  a  sound  and  a  sign, 
And  sobs  in  her  sleep,  as  the  warnings  go  past, 
"There   is  danger,   and   discord,   and  death  on    the 

blast." 

And   whence  comes  the  wind  ?  and  what  causes  the 

pain? 

And  wherefore  this  whisper  from  Texas  to  Maine? 
And  why,  in  the  fullness  and  depth  of  her  rest, 
Should  the  heart  of  our  Mother  in  dreams  be  distrest  ? 
Potomac's  blue  waters  are  clear  as  the  skies, 
And  the  chiefs  that  sit  by  them  are  valiant  and  wise; 
But  a  low  laughing  fiend  to  their  counsels  has  stole, 
And  darkens  with  tempest  the  calm  of  each  soul. 
A  poison  unwonted  corrodes  in  their  veins, 
Wild  frenzy  is  racking  their  hearts  and  their  brains, 
And  the  demon  still  hisses,  in  whisper  of  fear, 
"  Disunion  !  Disunion  !"   in  each  maddened  ear. 
And  this  is  the  reason  that  pain  and  dismay 
Glide  like  ghosts  through  the  night,  and  make  pallid 

the  day ; 


DISUNION.  115 

And  from  thence  are   the  sighs  and  the  sounds  that 

have  made 
For  her  children  the  heart  of  our  Mother  afraid. 

Is  it  so  ?  can  it  be  ?  are  they  prophets  who  say 
That  night  shall  return  on  the  dawn  of  our  day? 
Shall  the  despots  whose  hootings  ring  sharp  in  our  ears 
Exult  in  our  downfall,  rejoice  in  our  tears  ? 
Was  it  all  but  a  dream,  the  bright  vision  that  came 
To  the  camps  of  our  fathers,  through  battle  and  flame  ? 
Did  she  whisper  in  vain  in  each  ear,  as  she  passed, 
"  There's  a  temple  found  here  for  Jehovah  at  last ! 
On  this  fresh  land  of  God  ye  shall  worship  and  dwell, 
And  the  sound  of  your  joy  shall  be  tyranny's  knell. 
Pass  on  through  the  fire,  by  your  trials  made  strong ; 
Leave  not  on  your  borders  one  footprint  of  wrong ; 
Be  as  one,  and  cling  close,  like  the  drops  in  the  wave ; 
Strike  firm,  and  fear  not, — a  free  home,  or  the  grave  !" 
Oh,  woe  to  the  land  where  the  words  are  forgot ! 
Alas  for  the  nation  where  union  is  not ! 
Mourn,  mourn,  and  lament  for  the  ill-fated  shore 
The  dust  of  whose  martyrs  is  holy  no  more  ! 

Ye  millions  who  toil,  in  the  South  or  the  North, — 
Ye   with   arms    strong    as    iron,    and    hearts    of    true 

worth, — 

Wipe  the  sweat  from  your  brows,  look  aloft,  and  behold, 
On  the  sweeping  west  wind  there's  a  banner  unrolled. 
Not  an  inch  of  that  flag  but  was  purchased  by  strife, 
Not  a  thread  in  its  woof  but  was  won  by  a  life : 
'Tis  your  hope, — your  last  hope  !  while  it  floats  there 

shall  be 
A  land  undivided,  a  race  that  is  free. 


v 


n6  DISUNION. 

Will  you — dare  you  stand  idle  while  madmen  draw 

near 

And  rend  the  bright  banner  that  cost  us  so  dear  ? 
Speak  aloud, — they  shall  listen,   for,  oh,  they  know 

well 

Their  life  is  your  favor,  your  anger  their  knell. 
One  shout  for  the  Union  !  one  cheer  for  the  band 
Who  reared  the  starred  flag  in  the  night  of  our  land, 
And  we'll  see  who  shall  whisper  "  disunion"  or  "strife" 
When  the  heart  of  the  nation  rekindles  with  life ! 

God  shield  thee,  green  Erin  !  for  manhood  no  more 
Has  homestead,  or  harvest,  or  hope  on  thy  shore ; 
And  France,  like  a  Titan  awakened  by  pain, 
Struck  only  one  blow,  and  now  slumbers  again  ; 
Italy  lies  bleeding,  and  Kossuth  has  fled, 
While  the  band  that  hung  round  him  are  exiled  or  dead. 
Here  lonely  we  only  the  flag  have  unfurled 
In  whose  shadow  may  rest  the  oppressed  of  the  world. 
And  woe  to  the  foe  who  by  discord  or  war 
Would  quench  in  our  standard  the  beams  of  a  star  ! 
Though  his  heart  be  of  iron,  his  hand  made  so  bold 
As  to  break  the  strong  band  that  was  woven  of  old, 
Let  him  heed  well  the  sequel :  our  banner  of  blue 
Has  stripes  for  the  foeman,  as  stars  for  the  true ; 
And  the  sun  shall  not  shine  on  the  men  that  shall  see 
Dismembered  or  conquered  the  Flag  of  the  Free. 


A   REFLECTION.  117 


A    REFLECTION. 

"  For  love  is  heaven,  and  heaven  is  love." 

Great  Master  of  my  art  divine, 
Lord  of  the  wild,  romantic  lyre, 
Whose  wires,  that  shine  with  heavenly  fire, 
My  unskilled  fingers  feebly  rove, 

Amid  the  epic  song's  decline, 
Is  it  not  so? — beyond  that  shore, 

Beyond  that  dark,  uncertain  coast, 

Shall  we  not  meet  the  loved, — the  lost, — 
Shall  we  not  meet  to  part  no  more  ? 
O  ye  loved  ones  that  darkly  lie 
In  crumbling,  dull  obscurity, 
Ye  flowers  of  earth,  the  winds  of  time 
Have  scattered  ere  your  summer  prime, 
What  hope,  what  joy,  what  rapture  brings 
The  gladdening  thought  that  inly  springs, 
Soft  whispering,  "  By  a  waveless  stream 
Thy  withered  flowers  transplanted  gleam ; 
No  winds  of  death  are  wailing  there, 
But  music  in  the  fragrant  air, 
And  love  the  sparkling  light  that  fills 
The  vales  between  those  amber  hills. 
There  mayst  thou  drink  their  sweet  perfume, 
There  gaze  upon  their  fadeless  bloom, 
And,  mingling  with  their  beauties,  be 
Blest  through  a  bright  eternity." 


A   REFLECTION. 

The  only  music  I  have  known 
Thrills  sweet  in  woman's  silver  tone  ; 
The  only  nectar  I  would  sip 
Dewed  the  bright  rose  of  woman's  lip  ; 
And  woman's  eyes  have  been  to  me 
Twin  stars  that  ruled  my  destiny. 
Oh,  dark  would  be  that  radiant  sphere 
Without  her  gentle  presence  near. 
But  sad  these  lessening  joys  I  see, 
Ah,  woe  !  forever  fled  from  me  ! 

How  we  are  growing  old  ! — alas  ! 

My  friend,  how  swiftly  years  go  by, 
Like  the  weird  winds  that  viewless  pass 

Across  a  dull  October  sky, 
Scattering  our  hopes,  as  that  cold  breeze 
With  power  resistless  strips  the  trees, — 
So  like,  my  heart  it  deeply  grieves 
While  gazing  on  the  whirling  leaves ! 
What  withering  joys  our  path  beset ! 
How  few  the  flowers  that  linger  yet, — 
Wealth,  quiet,  peace! — but  God  knows  best ; 

And,  it  may  be,  this  fiery  soul 
Would  sink  into  inglorious  rest, 

Reposing  at  a  golden  goal. 
No  !  rather  give  me  power  and  skill, 
A  tameless  heart,  an  iron  will ; 
Such  springs  shall  nerve  my  feet  to  climb 
The  ice-col!  mountain -peaks  of  Time, 
And  high  upon  the  walls  of  Fame 
In  lines  of  fire  imprint  my  name ; 
Give  me  but  these,  and  wealth  and  ease 
I  scatter  to  the  winds  and  seas, 


THE   CHANDOS  PICTURE.  119 

So  that  I  live  from  age  to  age 
Upon  my  land's  historic  page  : 
Or,  this  denied,  I  still  must  try 
My  rude  and  untaught  poesy ; 
By  mountain  stream  and  meadow  lake 
I  must  my  harp  to  music  wake ; 
A  power  that  is  not  mine  compels 
Its  fitful  and  inconstant  swells; 
My  day-dreams,  woven  into  song, 
Are  borne  upon  its  streams  along, 
And  fill  the  wild  and  wondering  gale 
With  fragments  of  a  broken  tale. 


THE    CHANDOS     PICTURE. 

THE  bell  far  off  beats  midnight ;   in  the  dark 

The  sounds  have  lost  their  way,  and  wander  slowly; 

Through  the  dead  air,  beside  me,  things  cry,  "  Hark  !" 
And  whisper  words  unholy. 

A  hand  as  soft  as  velvet  taps  my  cheek ; 

These  gusts  are  from  the  wings  of  unseen  vampires. 
How  the  thick  dust  on  that  last  tome  doth  speak 

Its  themes, — dead  kings  and  empires  ! 

This  is  the  chamber, — ruined,  waste,  forlorn, 

Shred  of  its  old-time  gilding,  paint,  and  splendor. 

And  is  there  none  its  dim  decay  to  mourn, 
In  mystic  strains  and  tender? 


I20  THE    CHANDOS  PICTURE. 

Why  waits  no  harper  gray,  with  elfin  hand 

On  tuneless  chords  to  harshly  hail  the  stranger 

Who  treads  the  brink  of  an  enchanted  strand 
In  mist  and  midnight  danger  ? 

I  watch,  and  am  not  weary ;  all  night  long 

The  stars  look  shimmering  through  the  yawning  case- 
ment, 

And  the  low  ring  of  their  unvarying  song 
I  hear  without  amazement. 

How  the  hours  pass, — with  that  low  murmur  blent 
That  is  a  part  of  time,  yet  thrills  us  only 

When  all  besides  is  silent  and  close  pent, 
The  heart  is  chilled  and  lonely  ! 

I  watch,  and  am  not  weary ;   I  have  heard 

Light  steps  and  whispers  pass  me,  all  undaunted, 

Have  seen  pale  spectres  glide  where  nothing  stirred, — 
Because  the  place  is  haunted. 

And  wherefore  watch  I  fearless?     Wherefore  come 
These  things  with  windy  garments  hovering  round 
me? 

Whence  are  the  tongues,  the  tones,  the  stifled  hum, 
That  welcomed  and  have  bound  me  ? 

Lo !  on  the  wall,  in  mist  and  gloom  high  reared, 
A  luminous  Face  adorns  the  structure  hoary, — 

Light-bearded,  hazel-eyed,  and  auburn-haired, 
And  bright  with  a  strange  glory. 

'Tis  but  the  semblance  of  a  long-dead  one, — 
A  light  that  shines  and  is  not ;  clouds  are  o'er  it, 


THE   CHANDOS  PICTURE.  I2i 

Yet  in  the  realm  of  thought  it  beams  a  sun, 
And  stars  grow  pale  before  it. 

There  tend  the  tones ;  through  that  wan  atmosphere 
Glide  the  faint  spectres  with  a  stately  motion, 

Slowly  as  cloudy  ships  to  sunset  steer 
Along  the  airy  ocean. 

Shades  of  the  great  but  unremembered  dead 

Mourn  there,  and,  moaning,  ever  restless  wander  ; 

For  in  the  presence  of  that  pictured  head 
Their  waning  shapes  grow  grander. 

And  here  watch  I,  beneath  those  eyes  sublime, 
A  listening  to  the  soft-resounding  numbers 

That  float  like  wind  along  the  waves  of  time 
And  cheat  me  of  my  slumbers. 

But  who  shall  calm  the  restless  sprites  that  rove 
In  the  mute  presence  of  that  painted  Poet  ? 

In  vain  their  triumph  in  old  wars  or  love ; 
No  future  times  shall  know  it. 

For,  "  Oh  !"  they  cry,  "  his  song  has  named  us  not ; 

He  stretched  no  hand  to  lift  the  pall  flung  o'er  us." 
And  still  they  moan  and  shriek,  "  Forgot !  forgot !" 

In  faint  and  shivering  chorus. 

Mightiest  of  all — my  master  !     Dare  but  I 

Touch    the   shrunk   chords   thy   hand    divine   hath 
shaken, 

How  would  the  heroes  of  the  days  gone  by 
Throng  round  me,  and  awaken  ! 

F  II 


122  ODE    TO   CALIFORNIA. 

Oh,  many  a  heart,  the  worthiest — many  a  heart, 

Cold  now,  but  once  an  angel's  warm,  bright  dwell- 
ing- 
Waits  but  the  minstrel's  wizard  hand,  to  start 
With  life  immortal  swelling  ! 

And  thou,  so  missed,  where  art  thou  ?    On  what  sphere 
Of  nightless  glory  hast  thou  built  thine  altar? 

What  shining  hosts  bow  down  thy  song  to  hear, 
Thy  heart  the  harp  and  psalter  ? 

Thy  dust  is  mingled  with  thy  native  sod, 

Exhaled  like  dew  thy  soul  that  ranged  unbounded  ; 

But  who  shall  dare  to  tread  where  Shakspeare  trod, 
Or  strike  the  harp  he  sounded  ? 


ODE    TO    CALIFORNIA. 

Delivered   on  the  seventh  anniversary  of  her  admission  into  the 
Union,  before  the  Society  of  California  Pioneers. 


FAIR  California,  once  again 

We  come,  beloved,  to  thee, 
Child  of  the  grand  old  western  main, 

And  fairest  of  the  free. 
Though  young  thou  art,  a  gallant  band 

Of  lovers  round  thee  throng ; 
And  foes  shall  find  how  rash  the  hand 

That  dares  to  work  thee  wrong. 


ODE    TO    CALIFORNIA.  123 

Ring  out — ring  out — ring  out ! 

Let  brazen  bells  be  rung, 
And  psalms  of  martial  joy  be  raised 

In  our  brave  native  tongue. 

II. 

Oh,  brethren,  sisters,  children,  friends, 

Who,  mingling  here  this  day, 
At  Golden  California's  fane 

Your  heartfelt  homage  pay. 
Have  we  not  nobly  stemmed  the  tide 

Of  ruin's  swift  career, 
And  proudly  kept  old  ocean's  child 
From  danger — since  last  year  ? 
Then  ring  the  joyous  bells, 
Let  golden  bells  be  rung, 
And  songs  of  triumph  shake  the  skies 
In  our  sweet  native  tongue. 

ill. 

From  North,  from  South,  from  East,  from  West, 

From  many  a  clime,  we  come, 
And  all  have  left  with  fond  regret 

The  heart's  first  jewel,  Home. 
But  sweet  and  kind  emotions  here 

Have  soothed  the  wound  we  bore ; 
Who  once  were  many,  now  are  one, 
To  be  dispersed  no  more. 

Then  ring  harmonious  bells, 

Let  silver  bells  be  rung, 
And  sweet  fraternal  strains  arise 
In  our  dear  native  tongue. 


I24  ODE    TO   CALIFORNIA. 

IV. 

Regrets — regrets  we  still  must  feel 

For  scenes  our  childhood  knew, — 
The  old  red  school-house,  bridge  of  logs, 

Green  fields,  and  mountains  blue. 
From  North,  from  South,  from  East,  from  West, 

On  all  such  memories  throng ; 
Still  all  say,  "  Woe  to  All  who  dare 
Do  California  wrong  !" 

Then  ring  with  fearless  hearts, 

Let  brazen  bells  be  rung, 
And  psalms  of  martial  joy  be  heard 
In  our  brave  native  tongue. 

v. 

'Tis  false  to  say  our  course  is  run ; 

'Tis  wrong  to  doubt  success: 
Kind  hearts,  strong  hands,  unstained  repute, 

And  courage,  God  will  bless ! 
Have  we  not  homes  and  hopes  and  joys, 

Chaste  wives,  and  sisters  fair  ? 
May  not  the  last  born  boy-baby  be 
Our  Presidential  heir? 

Then  ring,  with  active  hands, 
Let  morning  bells  be  rung, 
And  birthday  anthems  thrill  with  joy 
Our  own  chaste  native  tongue. 

VI. 

Why  should  we  long  for  clouded  skies, 

While  ours  are  all  serene  ? 
The  snows  have  clothed  the  lands  we  left, 

While  yet  our  hills  are  green. 


ODE    TO   CALIFORNIA.  125 

Are  not  the  tall,  strong  Northmen  here, — 

Frost-hardened  sons  of  toil? 
Have  not  their  sinewy  hands  made  good 
Their  title  to  the  soil? 

Then  let  the  sleigh-bells  ring, — 
Far  off  such  bells  be  rung, — 
While  manly  Labor's  strains  rise  here 
In  our  good  native  tongue. 

VII. 

From  where  the  green  savannas  wave, 

From  where  the  spice-winds  blow, 
Are  Georgian  dames  not  smiling  here, 

Or  Southern  eyes  aglow? 
And  shall  we  not  hear  Freedom's  voice 

Speak  Freedom's  edict  forth? 
"  Here  on  my  California's  soil 
The  South  shall  wed  the  North  !" 
Oh,  ring,  ring  sweetly  low  ! 

Let  soothing  chimes  be  rung, 
And  wafted  murmurs  thrill  the  air 
In  our  sweet  native  tongue. 

VIII. 

Because  in  this  her  chosen  land 

Shall  no  dissension  be, 
Now  in  the  tower-crowned  city  proud 

Who  rules  the  Western  Sea; 
But  here,  where  last  on  her  domain 

Looks  back  the  glorious  sun, 
From  North,  from  South,  from  East,  from  West, 

Her  children  shall  be  one. 


126  ODE    TO   CALIFORNIA. 

Then  ring  harmonious  peals, 
Let  soothing  bells  be  rung, 

And  kindly  words  in  calm  accord 
Make  sweet  our  native  tongue. 

IX. 

For  those  who  fell  on  that  long  path 

By  which  we've  reached  To-day, 
Through  want,  through  woe,  by  fever  struck, 

Or  wearied  on  the  way, — 
The  Lord,  who  is  the  wanderer's  God, 

Will  watch  their  graves  unseen, 
And  we,  in  many  a  tale  and  song, 
Will  keep  their  memories  green. 

Then,  though  the  slow  bells  toll, 

Though  mournful  bells  be  rung, 
With  cheerful  words  we'll  yet  keep  light 
Our  own  sweet  native  tongue. 

x. 

Thus,  let  the  loud-mouthed  cannon  roar, 

Let  Music  raise  her  voice, 
The  streets  be  bright  with  pomp  and  sheen, 

The  gazing  hills  rejoice. 
No  cloud,  no  gloom,  no  fear,  to-day 

Our  cheerful  ritual  mars  : 
So,  to  the  healthful  western  winds 
Spread  out  the  Stripes  and  Stars. 
Ring  till  the  glad  air  laughs, 
Fast  be  the  joy-bells  rung, 
And  heartfelt  praises  rise  to  heaven 
In  our  loved  native  tongue. 


GOLD   IS  KING.  127 


GOLD    IS    KING. 

A  Poem  delivered  before  the  Society  of  California   Pioneers, 
September  9,  1858. 


MY  friends,  and  Pioneers,  once  more  to  you 

My  thanks,  good  wishes,  and  respects  are  due ; 

The  circling  years,  that  glide  in  joy  or  pain, 

But  bind  us  closer  in  their  lengthening  chain, 

Enclosed  more  firmly,  as  we  all  draw  nigh 

The  grateful  solitude  where  all  shall  die. 

'Tis  well  this  way  to  notice,  as  they  pass, 

The  fading  moments  in  reflection's  glass, — 

To  think  what  friends  have  fell,  what  foes  have  fled, 

And,  inly  grieving  for  the  gallant  dead, 

Rejoice  so  many  yet  in  firm  array 

Remain  to  fight  the  battle  of  the  day. 

For  as  in  war  a  strong  battalion  falls, 

Man  after  man,  before  beleaguered  walls, 

The  faithful  warriors  close  the  ranks,  and  still 

Maintain  the  combat  with  determined  will, 

So  we  should  gather  nearer  day  by  day, 

And  cling  the  closer  as  we  pass  away. 

With  your  good  leave,  again  in  earnest  rhyme 

Your  bard  would  show  the  spirit  of  the  time. 

Half  hopeful  and  half  sad  must  be  the  strain 

Which  he  shall  sing,  and  sing,  perhaps,  in  vain  ! 


128  GOLD   IS  KING. 

II. 

Our  youngest  statesman,  and  our  future  sage 
When  time  has  soothed  acridity  with  age, 
As  harsh  and  stringent  juices  of  the  vine 
By  years  are  mellowed  into  generous  wine, 
Has  lately  told  us,  in  his  regal  way, 
Who  o'er  the  land  omnipotent  hath  sway, 
What  hand  with  his  the  royal  sceptre  sway? 
Above  the  masses  of  these  latter  days, 
What  monarch  reigns  despotic  and  supreme 
In  all  the  realms  of  life's  delusive  dream. 
Thus  hath  he  said,  and  echoing  nations  ring 
With,  'Tis  not  Cotton,  it  is  Gold  is  King. 


So,  long  ago,  on  Syrian  plains,  there  came 
A  voice  of  thunder  from  a  haze  of  flame, 
Commanding  to  His  presence  him  who  made 
Egyptian  priests  before  their  shrines  afraid ; 
Whose  strong  right  hand  had  made  his  people  free, 
Upheld  by  Aaron's  arm  and  God's  decree. 
Long  days  of  weary  waiting  chilled  the  throng 
Whose  feet  had  sought  the  promised  land  so  long ; 
Impatient  to  their  priest — to  Aaron — cries 
From  all  the  wayworn  wanderers  arise, 
"  Go,  Aaron,  make  us  gods  to  go  before, 
For  this  man  Moses  we  shall  see  no  more." 
The  priestly  man  to  their  appeals  gave  way, — 
For  priests  their  congregations  must  obey ; 
The  golden  treasures  that  the  pilgrims  stole 
He  seeks,  he  gathers ;  he  dissolves  the  whole, 
And  from  the  crucible  on  their  behalf 
Comes  out  the  miracle, — a  Golden  Calf! 


GOLD   IS  KING.  129 

From  the  low  mound  he  waves  his  sacred  rod, 
And  cries  to  Israel's  hosts,  "  Behold  your  God." 

IV. 

But  from  the  splintered  cliffs  of  lone  Sinai, 

Where  sulphurous  clouds  had  long  obscured  the  day, 

There  came,  with  downcast  eyes,  but  stately  pace, 

The  man  who  met  Jehovah  face  to  face, 

Where  on  the  granite  summit  topped  with  snow, 

While  lightnings  veiled  his  splendor  from  below, 

The  lines  were  graven  and  the  words  were  said 

By  Him,  the  Lord,  to  rule  the  world  He  made; 

And  holy  anger  filled  the  prophet's  eyes, 

A  wrath  divine  succeeding  his  surprise. 

With  sacred  fury  from  his  hands  were  thrown 

And  crushed  in  dust  the  consecrated  stone ; 

Struck  by  his  arm,  the  golden  idol  fell, 

Consigned  to  fire, — premonitor  of  hell. 

Reduced  to  ashes,  to  the  saddened  wave 

The  remnant  of  idolatry  he  gave ; 

While,  as  the  people  shrank  before  his  nod, 

To  Israel's  hosts  he  said,   "  Behold  your  God  !" 

v. 

Yes,  Gold  is  King,  and  vices  he  controls ; 
King  of  all  sordid  and  ignoble  souls ; 
Strong  to  destroy,  but  powerless  to  save ; 
Impotent,  save  for  pleasure  and  a  grave. 
But  not  one  generous  heart  can  Gold  seduce 
To  bend  its  energies  to  evil  use. 
Can  Gold  buy  love?     I  know  you  blush  with  shame 
That  dross  should  mingle  with  that  sacred  name ; 
F* 


1 3o 


GOLD   IS  KING. 


Gold  may  be  King  in  clouded  walks  by  night, 

In  lawless  passions  and  impure  delight ; 

But  the  fond  heart,  the  tearful  eye,  the  cheek 

That  waits  the  kisses  that  it  fain  would  seek, — 

The  rapturous  tender  pulses  of  that  love 

Which  shuns  the  blessed  in  the  realms  above, — 

Can  these  be  bought  ? — can  these  by  wealth  be  made, 

Like  gold  or  cotton,  articles  of  trade? 

Wealth  win  one  heart-throb  from  the  chaste  and  true  ? 

O  lovely  ladies,  I  appeal  to  you. 

VI. 

And  there  are  mothers,  sisters,  daughters,  wives, 
Who  hold  their  honor  as  they  hold  their  lives, 
Whose  firm  affections  are  not  bought  and  sold, 
Whose  last  and  least  idea  would  be  Gold. 
Thank  God,  not  few  are  they :   in  mass  they  stand, 
The  health,  the  wealth,  the  glory  of  our  land. 
Behold  the  matron,  who  through  want  and  woes 
Still  lulls  her  family  in  sweet  repose, 
Relieves  the  opening  soul  of  griefs  and  cares, 
Her  children  all  the  jewels  that  she  wears. 
Can  wealth  buy  such  ?     The  priceless  gem  may  be 
Without  a  price,  my  friends,  consigned  to  thee. 
Oh,  prize  it,  gaze  on  its  unsullied  ray, 
And  deem  its  radiance  brighter  than  the  day. 
'Tis  a  rich  pearl  in  every  good  man's  eye, 
That  all  the  gold  of  Ophir  could  not  buy. 

VII. 

Can  Gold  buy  friendship  ?     Service  Gold  may  bring, 
And  o'er  such  purchased  service  Gold  is  King ; 


•    AN  EXILE'S  SONG.  131 

But  the  strong  arm,  free  heart,  and  liberal  thought 
Of  noble  natures  never  can  be  bought. 
O  stainless  charity,  immortal  faith, 
Soother  of  life,  and  conqueror  of  death, 
Your  places,  vacant,  Gold  cannot  supply  j 
Your  priceless  services  no  gold  can  buy. 

VIII. 

Gold  is  not  King  :   'tis  Virtue  that  controls 
The  tides  that  ebb  or  swell  in  noble  souls. 
The  faithless  lawyer,  statesman,  priest,  or  spy, 
Lost  to  all  shame,  cupidity  may  buy ; 
But  there  are  millions,  strong  in  truth  divine, 
Who  scorn  the  yellow  Monarch  of  the  Mine, 
Who  shield  the  State,  and  calmly  tell  the  world 
This  land  shall  flourish  while  her  flag's  unfurled, — 
Not  hirelings,  but  our  unbought  volunteers  : 
In  the  first  rank  I  greet  you,  Pioneers. 


AN    EXILE'S    SONG. 

DOWN  by  a  silent  river, 

I  heard  an  exile  sing, 
In  a  time  of  peace  and  plenty, 

Before  this  "  Gold  was  King;" 
He  was  one  from  a  far  green  island, 

Which  suffers  fate's  decrees, 
And  mourns  in  her  ravished  beauty 

Amid  the  laughing  seas. 

/-^.•:  >>*   OF  TH* 


1 32  AN  EXILE'S  SONG. 

"Bright  summer  is  around  me," 

So  ran  the  exile's  strain, 
"And  summer  birds  are  singing, 

Alas,  for  me,  in  vain  ! 
Sweet  summer  is  around  me ; 

But  still  the  thought  will  come 
That  these  are  not  my  native  scenes, 

That  this  is  not  my  home. 

"  The  river  sings  a  low  sweet  song, 

The  blooming  flowers  are  fair, 
And  many  a  pleasant  melody 

Is  floating  on  the  air, 
And  earth  is  full  of  witchery ; 

But  still  the  thought  will  come 
That  these  are  not  my  native  scenes, 

That  this  is  not  my  home. 

"  For,  ah  !  among  the  blossoms 

That  gem  the  wood  and  dell, 
I  miss  the  mountain  daisy, 

I  miss  the  heather  bell ; 
And  through  the  woods'  recesses 

For  hours  I  have  been, 
But  I  cannot  find  the  holly, 

With  its  leaves  of  evergreen. 

"  The  meadow  may  be  greener, 

The  sky  a  clearer  blue, 
But  man  can  never  know  a  land 

Like  that  his  childhood  knew ; 
And  still  it  seems  the  fairer, 

Behind  the  mists  of  years, 


AN  EXIL&S  SONG.  133 

When  the  brilliant  eye  of  boyhood 
Is  dimmed  by  many  tears. 

"  Those  sweet  and  pleasant  memories, 

They  haunt  me  like  a  dream : 
The  old  tree,  and  the  rustic  bridge 

That  lay  across  the  stream ; 
The  cottage  by  the  lone  hill-side; 

The  white  and  flowery  thorn, 
Where  I  heard  the  red-breast  singing 

Each  day  at  early  morn. 

"And  the  faces — ah  !  the  faces, 

So  happy  and  so  gay, 
Of  friends  that  gathered  round  me 

Upon  a  summer's  day. 
Oh,  more  than  native  flowers 

Where  summer  breezes  blow, 
Do  I  miss  the  eyes  that  glistened 

Around  me  long  ago. 

"  And  so  the  thousand  beauties, 

So  brightly  round  me  spread, 
Alas  !  but  lead  my  memory 

To  beauties  that  are  dead ; 
For  still  amid  their  loveliness 

The  weary  thought  will  come 
That  these  are  not  my  native  scenes, 

That  this  is  not  my  home." 

So,  by  a  silent  river, 
I  heard  the  exile  sing : — 

12 


134  THE  DYING  EXILE. 

The  time  was  the  pleasant  month  of  May, 
The  second-born  of  Spring. 

He  was  one  from  a  far  green  island, 
Which  suffers  fate's  decrees, 

And  mourns  in  her  ravished  beauty 
Amid  the  mocking  seas. 


THE     DYING    EXILE. 

UPON  his  couch  he  lay, 
That  old,  deserted,  dying  man, 
And  o'er  his  features  worn  and  wan 

Stole  the  last  beams  of  day. 
In  the  far  west,  like  heaps  of  gold, 
The  evening  clouds  in  brightness  rolled  ; 
The  lake  lay  motionless  and  calm ; 
The  earth  was  still,  the  air  was  balm  ; 
In  towering  pride  the  mountains  stood, 
In  sombre  shadow  slept  the  wood  ; 
Each  leaf  lay  wrapt  in  soft  repose, 
The  dew-drops  trembled  on  the  rose, 
And  all  was  lovely,  fair,  and  grand, — 
The  sunset  of  our  Western  land  ! 
But  in  that  little  room  alone, 
With  none  to  list  to  his  feeble  moan, 
The  exile  faintly  drew  his  breath, 
Beneath  the  heavy  hand  of  death. 
He  heeded  not  the  earth  below, 

He  heeded  not  the  skies  of  flame, 


THE  DYING  EXILE. 

But  thus,  in  tones  of  wail  and  woe, 
His  dying  murmurs  came  : 

"O  God!  'tis  hard  to  die 

Thus  from  my  native  land  away, 

No  kindly  hand  of  kindred  nigh 
To  cheer  this  drooping  clay. 

"  Fain  would  I  lay  my  head 

Where  my  forefathers  rest, 
Even  though  the  tyrant's  tread 

Fell  on  my  pulseless  breast. 
I  would  not  ask  one  flower 

My  lonely  grave  to  gem, 
So  that  in  that  dark  hour 

My  rest  might  be  with  them. 

"  Oh,  could  I  tread  once  more 

That  well-remembered  plain  ! 
Oh,  could  I  see  that  fair  green  shore, 

Those  misty  hills  again ! 
Alas  !  it  may  not  be  : 

Oppression  holds  the  rod 
Of  tyranny  above  the  land 

So  nobly  blest  by  God. 
Where  are  the  forms  that  once, 

Ere  life's  first  dreams  had  fled, 
I  thought  would  turn  a  pitying  glance 

Upon  my  dying  bed  ? 
Gone  with  my  early  hopes, — 

All  dead,  and  vanished  all, — 
And  here,  a  lone  deserted  man, 

Unseen,  unmourned,  I  fall. 


135 


136  THE  DYING  EXILJ^ 

"O  God!   'tis  hard  to  die 

Thus  from  my  native  land  away, 

No  kindly  hand  of  kindred  nigh 
To  tend  this  drooping  clay." 

The  murmurs  ceased,  as  if  he  drank 

In  silence,  to  the  dregs,  his  cup 
Of  bitterness,  and  cold  and  dank 

The  death-drops  on  his  brow  stood  up ; 
But  from  his  lips  no  whisper  stole 
To  tell  the  tortures  of  his  soul. 
But  see,  a  change  has  o'er  him  past : 
The  clouds  of  death  aside  are  cast, 
And  through  the  mist  his  eye  gleams  bright, 
As  with  a  strange  unnatural  light ; 
A  smile  of  triumph  sweeps  along 
His  features,  like  a  sunbeam  strong. 

"What  sound  is  on  the  hills?  what  cry 
Rolls  through  the  valleys  like  a  flood  ? 

Huzza  !  around,  above,  on  high, 

I  see  my  country's  banners  fly, 
Their  green  unstained  by  blood  ! 

"  The  wail  of  pain  and  grief  no  more 
Is  blending  with  the  ocean  roar ; 
But  sounds  of  gladness,  joy,  and  mirth 
Like  light  are  glancing  o'er  the  earth. 

"  My  native  land,  my  fatherland, 

I  am  upon  thy  hills  ! 
I  see  far  off  thy  white  beach  sand, 

I  hear  thy  silver  rills, 


TO  A.  J.  C.,  OF  MARYSVILLE.  137 

And  strains  of  music,  wild  and  free, 
Come  up  like  breezes  from  the  sea, 

And  over  all  the  glad  shout  thrills 
Of  freedom,  freedom,  Liberty  / 

"  O  God  !  I  thank  thee  !  sweeter  far 

To  me  this  fair  and  lovely  sight 
Than  ever  was  the  beacon  star 

To  the  lone  mariner  at  night. 
Now  welcome,  Death  !  no  longer  fly ; 

Thy  shaft  no  terror  brings  to  me ; 
Contented,  happy,  blest  I  die, 

For  Erin  shall  be  free  /" 


TO    A.   J.    C.,   OF    MARYSVILLE. 

DOST  thou  remember,  comrade  dear, 

Of  hours  in  youth's  glad  springing, 
When  we  blithely  sought  the  forest  sere 

With  rifles  deftly  ringing, — 
When  the  dun  deer  fell  in  copse  and  dell 

Before  our  aims  unerring, 
And,  wild  with  glee,  we  wandered  free, 

Uncared  for  and  uncaring  ? 
Well,  you  and  I  again  shall  try 

Those  woodland  sports  together, 
When  the  leaf  grows  sere,  in  the  fading  year, 

In  the  balmy  autumn  weather. 

Oh,  joy  !  methinks  I  feel  the  clasp 
Of  the  hand  of  one  true-hearted, 

12* 


138  TO  A.  J.   C.,  OF  MARYSVILLE. 

With  form  as  bold,  as  firm  a  grasp, 

As  they  were  when  last  we  parted  ! 
Old  Springmill's  haunted  shades  shall  wake 

With  a  hundred  echoes  sounding, 
When  our  wild  halloo  their  rest  shall  break, 

And  the  tramp  of  fleet  feet  bounding ; 
The  game  shall  tell,  our  hands  full  well 

May  still  be  matched  together, 
When  the  leaf  grows  sere,  in  the  fading  year, 

In  the  balmy  autumn  weather. 

We'll  tell  old  tales  of  far-off  climes, 

And  think  of  joys  passed  o'er  us, 
And  look  through  the  mists  of  coming  times 

To  sunnier  scenes  before  us ; 
We'll  weave  our  day-dreams  gayly  yet, 

For,  though  our  hearts  are  older, 
Yet  hearts  that  stormy  scenes  have  met 

By  stormy  scenes  grow  bolder ; 
And  so  we'll  chase  the  hours  apace 

In  wood  and  wold  together, 
When  the  leaf  grows  sere,  in  the  fading  year, 

In  the  balmy  autumn  weather. 

Then  count  with  me,  dear  friend,  the  hours 

While  summer  moons  are  flying, 
And  hail  with  joy  the  time  when  flowers 

In  western  winds  are  dying : 
And  when  the  light-winged  swallow's  form 

No  more  at  morn  shall  meet  thee, 
Then  be  thy  heart  as  blithe  and  warm 

As  his  who  soon  shall  greet  thee  ; 


LINES. 


139 


For  the  first  red  spray  on  woodland  way 

And  I  shall  come  together, 
When  the  leaf  grows  sere,  in  the  fading  year, 

In  the  balmy  autumn  weather. 


LINES. 

WHEN  shall  be  my  dying  day  ? 
Is  it  near  or  far  away  ? 
Oh  for  quiet  to  this  breast ! 
Oh  for  deep,  unbroken  rest ! 
To  be  sleeping  calm  and  cold, 
Pillowed  on  the  lowly  mould  ! 
Blissful  slumber,  welcome  day, 
Be  it  near  or  far  away ! 

I  am  lonely, — all  alone  \ 
None  to  love,  or  love  me, — none  ! 
Not  a  cheek  whose  bloom  would  fade 
Were  I  low  and  lonely  laid ; 
Not  an  eye  would  miss  me  gone 
Ere  a  little  month  had  flown ; 
Not  a  heart  where  hope  would  say, 
Oh,  may  it  be  far  away  f 

Who  would  stay  where  hope  had  fled  ? 
Who  would  live  if  love  were  dead  ? 
Day  has  darkened  ere  its  noon, — 
Winter  nips  the  flowers  of  June. 
All  have  vanished, — fled  from  me, — 
All  but  torturing  memory, 


I4C 


LINES. 

And  this  sure  and  slow  decay, — 
Though  the  end  be  far  away. 

Pain  has  triumphed  o'er  delight, 
Dreary  darkness  clouds  my  sight ; 
Heart  and  spirit  torn  and  sore. 
Earth  can  injure  me  no  more  ! 
Of  the  tomb's  advancing  shade, 
Thus  my  soul  hath  question  made ; 
"When  shall  be  my  dying  day? 
Is  it  near  or  far  away  ?' ' 

Answerless  and  echoless 
Lies  the  unexplored  abyss  ! 
Oh  for  quiet  to  this  breast ! 
Oh  for  deep,  unbroken  rest ! 
To  be  sleeping  calm  and  cold, 
Pillowed  on  the  lowly  mould  ! 
Blissful  slumber,  welcome  day, 
Be  it  near  or  far  away ! 


THE  GOLDEN  DAYS  WHEN  I  WAS  YOUNG.      141 


THE    GOLDEN    DAYS    WHEN    I    WAS 
YOUNG. 

I. 

THE  golden  days  when  I  was  young  ! — 
The  air  is  calm,  the  air  is  clear, 
The  bright-blue  summer  heaven  is  near ; 
The  green  leaves  are  not  whispering  there, 
But  mute  with  joy  in  this  sweet  air, — 

The  golden  days  when  I  was  young ! 

II. 

The  golden  days  when  I  was  young  ! — 
I  gaze  upon  this  bright  sweet  air ; 
My  mother  combs  and  curls  my  hair ; 
At  the  last  hour  allowed  by  rule, 
With  almost  pleasure  rush  to  school, — 

The  golden  days  when  I  was  young  ! 

m. 

The  golden  days  when  I  was  young ! — 
Beside  the  silent  stream  we  stand ; 
I  clasp  her  waist,  I  clasp  her  hand : 
"O  best-beloved,  my  hope,  my  life, 
Cling  to  my  breast,  my  cherished  wife!*' — 

The  golden  days  when- 1  was  young ! 


1 42  INVOCATION  AT  MIDNIGHT. 


The  golden  days  when  I  was  young  ! — 
The  babe,  how  fair,  how  dear,  how  weak, 
But  nature's  language,  naught  can  speak, 
Yet  on  its  slowly-brightening  face 
The  light  of  Heaven  we  think  we  trace  ! — 

The  golden  days  when  I  was  young ! 

v. 

The  golden  days  when  I  was  young ! — 

Alas  !  alas  !  no  more  for  me 

Clear  stream,  blue  sky,  or  green-robed  tree. 

I  only  can  disturb  the  air, 

And  moan,  in  tones  of  weak  despair, 
"  The  golden  days  when  I  was  young !" 


INVOCATION    AT    MIDNIGHT. 

A   LOVER  TO    HIS    MISTRESS    DURING   ABSENCE. 

COME,  dearest,  sun-like  mingle  with  my  dreams ; 
Come  from  the  East,  thou  fairer  than  the  morn ; 
On  me  thy  shadowy  smiles  shall  shine  like  beams 
Poured  down  at  dawn  on  blossoms  newly  born. 
The  sun  will  soon  be  jeweling  the  corn 
Around  thy  dwelling.     Ere  it  wake  the  night, 
Haste,  haste,  in  spirit,  to  these  arms  forlorn ; 
Ere  day  divides  us,  meet  my  sleeping  sight, 
And  thrill  my  heart  anew  with  dreams  of  old  delight. 


INVOCATION  AT  MIDNIGHT.  143 

The- sea  is  near  thee  in  thine  East  countrie, 
The  sea  is  near  me  on  this  Western  shore. 
Oh,  could  we  both  now  rove  by  either  sea, 
As  once  we  wandered,  when  the  wild  waves'  roar 
Was  music  to  us !     Oh  to  be  once  more 
Where  thou  hast  being,  and  to  taste  the  bliss 
That  earliest  warmed  my  bosom  to  its  core, 
Once  more  thy  hand  to  press,  thy  cheek  to  kiss  ! — 
All-powerful   Love  !    canst  thou  no  marvel  work  like 
this? 

0  Love  !  thou  wert  a  god  in  the  past  days, 
When  Earth  was  young,  and  Passion  in  her  prime. 
Immortal  Love  !  the  poet's  antique  lays 

Have  charmed  thy  followers  from  the  touch  of  Time. 
Wake  once  again,  and,  if  the  minstrel  chime 
Of  tuneful  numbers  please  thee,  hear  me  now. 
Responsive  to  the  worship  of  my  rhyme, 
Give  me  to  gaze  upon  that  dear-loved  brow : 
Great  are  the  gods  alone  who  list  a  votary's  vow. 

What  comes?  Bright  heaven,  'tis  she !  Lo  !  on  the  air 

1  see  her  misty  image  dawn  like  day ; 
The  wind  flows  under  and  uplifts  her  hair, 
And,  as  I  gaze  upon  her,  fast  away 

Roll  these  dim  scenes ;  I  feel  the  cool  white  spray 
Sprinkle  my  fevered  forehead,  and  I  stand 
Beside  her.     Doth  she  see  me  not  ?     I  lay 
My  trembling  fingers  on  her  lifted  hand. 
She   starts  not,  feels  not,  sees   naught  save  the  sea- 
washed  sand. 

Oh,  if  I  dream,  then  sleeping  let  me  die  ! 
If  this  be  frenzy,  let  me  mad  remain  ! 


144      A   LEGEND    OF  THE   PACIFIC  COAST. 

Alas  !  she  fades ;  her  form  eludes  my  eye. 
Farewell  the  vision  !  all  is  dark  again. 
Now  to  my  lonely  couch,  this  ceaseless  pain 
To  drug  with  slumber.     Yet,  immortal  Love, 
Accept  the  homage  of  my  humble  strain, 
That,  bending  from  the  placid  realms  above, 
Thy  magic  hand  for  me  this  dear  delusion  wove. 

Once  more  I  call  thee,  darling,  to  my  dreams. 
Come  from  the  East,  thou  fairer  than  the  morn ; 
Shed  on  my  sleep  thy  shadowy  smiles,  as  beams 
Are  showered  at  dawn  on  blossoms  newly  born, 
And,  ere  the  dews  are  jewels  on  the  corn 
Around  thy  dwelling,  ere  the  drowsy  night 
Wakes,  starts,  and  flies,  oh,  seek  these  arms  forlorn ; 
Chase  the  sad  shadows  from  my  clouded  sight, 
And  thrill  my  hushed,  cold  heart  with  dreams  of  old 
delight. 


A    LEGEND    OF    THE    PACIFIC 
COAST. 

SOUTHWARD  of  our  Gates  of  Gold 
An  hundred  leagues,  as  the  tale  is1  told, 
There  lieth,  a  mile  below  the  sea, 
A  city  that  was,  and  yet  shall  be ; 
Drowned  for  its  sins,  but  yet  to  rise, 
As  shriven  souls  ascend  the  skies. 

I  have  been  through  that  city  in  a  dream, 
Where  its  turrets  through  the  blue  waves  gleam; 


A   LEGEND    OF   THE   PACIFIC   COAST.       145 

I  have  stood  when  the  moon  to  the  rippled  wave 
The  ghastly  ghost  of  sunlight  gave ; 
Through  the  avenues  long,  accursed  by  crime, 
In  the  shadows  of  the  olden  time, 
In  a  vision  I  wandered,  and  walked  amid 
The  streets  where  numberless  things  lie  hid 
That  nameless  seemed,  and  strange  to  me, 
In  those  sunless  solitudes  down  in  the  sea. 

The  hand  of  Time,  that  spectre  grim, 

Has  never  reached  down  through  the  water  dim ; 

But  pillar  and  column  are  standing  there 

Erect  as  they  stood  above  in  the  air ; 

And,  save  that  o'er  all  the  slimy  water 

A  cold  and  glittering  film  hath  cast, 
As  northern  winds,  unpitying,  scatter 

Ice  on  the  trees  as  they  hurry  past,  t 
The  mirror-like  marbles  untarnished  shine, 
As  when  first  they  went  down  in  the  sparkling  brine. 

The  waving  sea-weeds,  rank  and  tall, .; 
Like  ivy,  are  clinging  to  tower  and 'wall, 
And  the  glittering  dolphin  and  ravenous  shark 
Are  gliding  around  in  the  chambers  dark. 
There  the  arms  of  the  polypus  are  seen, 
Like  a  spider's  mesh  in  the  water  green, 
And  a  thousand  wonderful  creatures  'sleep 
Motionless,  silently,  down  in  the  degp. 

There  sitteth  a  form  on  a  marble  throne, — 
The  form  of  a  maiden  young  and  fair, — 

But  the  water  hath  turned  the  body  to  stone, 
And  hardened  the  curls  of  her  raven  hair ; 
G  13 


146      THE  LOVE    THAT  CHANGETH  NEVER. 

Yet  her  full,  dark  eyes  are  open,  and  seem 
Forever  to  flash  with  a  lambent  beam ; 
But  her  rounded  arms  and  bosom  white 
Have  a  deathly  cast  in  that  saddened  light. 

When  the  loving  waves  of  a  thousand  years 

Shall  have  washed  from  those  walls  of  guilt  the  stain, 
As  sin  is  washed  out  by  the  penitent's  tears, 

That  city  will  start  from  her  slumbers  again ; 
And  surely  'twill  be  strange  to  mark 
Each  tower,  as  it  leaves  its  chambers  dark, 
Springing  up  into  life,  unbound  and  free, 
From  those  sunless  solitudes  down  in  the  sea. 


THERE   IS   A  LOVE   THAT   CHANGETH 
NEVER. 

THERE  is  a  love  that  changeth  never. 

Hearts  around  us  all  decay  ; 
All  the  joys  of  earth  are  ever 

Fleeting,  like  the  clouds,  away. 
Far  beyond  a  waveless  river 

Lieth  a  land  of  visions  gay, 
Where  the  love  that  changeth  never 

Keepeth  one  eternal  day. 

Where  is  the  dream  that  woke  thy  spirit, 
Giving  joy  to  thy  young  May  time  ? 

What  doth  now  thy  heart  inherit 

From  the  flowers  of  manhood's  prime? 


THE  LOVE    THAT  CHANG ETH  NEVER.      147 

Where  are  the  eyes  that  gazed  upon  thee  ? 

Where  is  the  love  that  blessed  thy  bloom? 
Flowers  and  eyes  and  love  wait  on  thee 

In  thy  goal,  the  dreamless  tomb. 

There  is  a  love  that  changeth  never. 

Hearts  around  us  all  decay; 
All  the  joys  of  earth  are  ever 

Fleeting,  like  the  clouds,  away. 
Far  beyond  a  waveless  river 

Lieth  a  land  of  visions  gay, 
Where  the  love  that  changeth  never 

Keepeth  one  eternal  day. 

Like  the  dove  o'er  waste  waves  sweeping, 

Goeth  the  human  heart  in  vain, 
Seeking  in  pain  and  doubt  and  weeping 

Some  dear  heart  that  loves  again. 
Darkly  still  comes  Time's  December 

On  such  hearts  as  vainly  rove ; 
When,  oh,  when  shall  man  remember 

Earth  is  changing,  God  is  love  ? 

There  is  a  love  that  changeth  never. 

Hearts  around  us  all  decay; 
All  the  joys  of  earth  are  ever 

Fleeting,  like  the  clouds,  away. 
Far  beyond  a  waveless  river 

Lieth  a  land  of  visions  gay, 
Where  the  love  that  changeth  never 

Keepeth  one  eternal  day. 


148  THE  LATEST  "POME." 


THE    LATEST    "POME. 


LINES   TO   A   LADY    DEPARTING    FOR   AUSTRALIA. 


HERE'S  to  the  fellows  decidedly  sold 

By  the  lady  who  lately  has  left  us. 
With  all  the  strong  sympathies,  love,  and  the  gold 

Of  which  she  has  rashly  bereft  us. 
Let  the  joke  pass ;  drink  to  the  lass  : 
I'll  warrant  she'll  find  an  excuse  for  the  glass. 

ii. 

Here's  to  the  next  Atalanta  who  seeks 

To  dance  in  ecstatics  before  us; 
But  it's  hoped  that  at  least  for  a  "  couple  of  weeks" 

No  other  Diana  will  bore  us. 

Still,  here's  to  the  lass  who  was  strong  on  the  "sass," 
And  wouldn't,  by  no  means,  revolt  from  a  glass. 

III. 

Here's  to  the  gentlemen  published  and  caught 
For  subscriptions,  and  find  them  too  dear,  sir ; 

And  here's  to  the  gent  whose  fine  talents  were  bought, 
As  they  say,  for  five  hundred  a  year,  sir. 

They  had  best  take  a  glass,  and  drink  to  the  lass, 

And  every  one  say  to  himself,  "What  an  ass !" 


THE  LATEST  "POME."  149 


Here's  to  the  scribblers  who  sprang  for  the  prize 
When  the  cash  was  put  up  with  Wells  Fargo ; 

Alas !  the  sweet  cash,  they  are  saying,  with  sighs, 
Has  gone  with  the  rest  of  the  cargo. 

But  give  them  a  glass,  and  drink  to  the  lass, 

And  gallantly  say,  Let  her  go, — let  her  pass. 

v. 

Here's  to  the  lovers,  with  faultless  cravats, 
Who  rushed  to  the  fair  lady's  chamber, 

Who  kissed  her  bright  tears  away,  took  up  their  hats, 
And  were  solemnly  told  to  "remember." 

Let  the  joke  pass ;  take  a  fresh  glass ; 

Three  cheers  and  a  tiger — hurrah  for  the  lass ! 

VI. 

Here's  to  the  versatile  "ancient  of  days," 
Who  lives  in  a  cabbage-yard  barren, — 

The  complaisant  gentleman,  flush  with  bouquets, 
The  learned  and  revered  Mr.  Warren. 

Let  the  joke  pass ;  drink  to  the  lass : 

It's  hardly  worth  while  to  take  him  from  the  mass. 


150  THE  PARTING  HOUR. 


THE    PARTING    HOUR. 

THERE'S  something  in  the  "parting  hour" 

Will  chill  the  warmest  heart, 
Yet  kindred,  comrades,  lovers,  friends, 

Are  fated  all  to  part ; 
But  this  I've  seen, — and  many  a  pang 

Has  pressed  it  on  my  mind, — 
The  one  who  goes  is  happier 

Than  those  he  leaves  behind. 

No  matter  what  the  journey  be, — 

Adventurous,  dangerous,  far, 
To  the  wild  deep,  or  bleak  frontier, 

To  solitude  or  war, — 
Still  something  cheers  the  heart  that  dares, 

In  all  of  human  kind, 
And  they  who  go  are  happier 

Than  those  they  leave  behind. 

The  bride  goes  to  the  bridegroom's  home 

With  doubtings  and  with  tears, 
But  does  not  hope  a  rainbow  spread 

Across  her  cloudy  fears? 
Alas  !  the  mother  who  remains, 

What  comfort  can  she  find 
But  this, — the  gone  is  happier 

Than  one  she  leaves  behind  ? 


WHEN  TWILIGHT  DEWS  ARE  FALLING.      151 

Have  you  a  friend,  a  comrade  dear, 

An  old  and  valued  friend  ? 
Be  sure  your  term  of  sweet  concourse 

At  length  will  have  an  end ; 
And  when  you  part,  as  part  you  will, 

Oh,  take  it  not  unkind 
If  he  who  goes  is  happier 

Than  you  he  leaves  behind. 

God  wills  it  so, — and  so  it  is, — 

The  pilgrims  on  their  way, 
Though  weak  and  worn,  more  cheerful  are 

Than  all  the  rest  who  stay. 
And  when  at  last  poor  man,  subdued, 

Lies  down,  to  death  resigned, 
May  he  not  still  be  happier  far 

Than  those  he  leaves  behind  ? 


WHEN    THE    TWILIGHT    DEWS    ARE 
FALLING. 

WHEN  the  solemn  midnight  lonely 

Sleeps  around  me  deep  and  still, 
And  the  gentle  night-breeze  only 

Murmurs  music  on  the  hill, 
When  the  seal  of  noiseless  slumber 

Closes  every  eye  but  mine, 
And  illusions  without  number 

Visions  for  the  dreamer  twine, 
Then,  sweet  maiden,  still  beside  me 

I  thy  gentle  image  see, 


WHEN  TWILIGHT  DEWS  ARE  FALLING. 

As  though  lingering  to  guide  me 
From  my  wandering  to  thee. 

When  the  ruddy  morn  leaps  shining 

From  the  oriental  wave, 
And  the  laughing  hours  are  twining 

Flowers  to  deck  each  other's  grave, 
When  the  fragrant  blossoms  lure  me 

O'er  the  green  and  dewy  lawn, 
And  her  purple  banners  o'er  me 

Waves  the  rosy-handed  dawn, 
Still,  sweet  maiden,  still  beside  me 

I  thy  gentle  image  see, 
As  though  lingering  to  guide  me 

From  my  wandering  to  thee. 

Oh  that  future  hours  some  token 

To  my  spirit  would  supply, 
That  the  spell  should  ne'er  be  broken, 

That  thy  charm  should  never  die  ! 
Gladly  would  I  hail  the  morrow 

That  should  bid  me  rove  no  more, 
Seeking  still  through  life  to  borrow 

Sweets  from  time's  illusive  store ; 
Then,  sweet  maiden,  still  beside  me 

Thy  sweet  image  would  I  see, 
Sighing,  seeking  still  to  guide  me 

Back  from  wandering  to  thee. 


ALL    THY  WORKS  PRAISE    THEE.  153 


ALL    THY    WORKS    PRAISE    THEE. 

THE  moonbeams  on  the  billowy  deep, 

The  blue  waves  rippling  on  the  strand, 
The  ocean  in  its  peaceful  sleep, 

The  shell  that  murmurs  on  the  sand, 
The  cloud  that  dims  the  bending  sky, 

The  bow  that  on  its  bosom  glows, 
The  sun  that  lights  the  vault  on  high, 

The  stars  at  midnight's  calm  repose, — 
These  praise  the  Power  that  arched  the  sky 
And  robed  the  earth  in  beauty's  dye. 

The  melody  of  Nature's  choir, 

The  deep-toned  anthems  of  the  sea, 
The  wind  that  tunes  a  viewless  lyre, 

The  zephyr  on  its  pinions  free, 
The  thunder  with  its  thrilling  notes 

That  peal  upon  the  mountain  air, 
The  lay  that  through  the  foliage  floats, 

Or  sinks  in  dying  cadence  there, — 
These  all  to  Thee  their  voices  raise, 
A  fervent  voice  of  gushing  praise. 

The  day-star,  herald  of  the  dawn, 

As  the  dark  shadows  flit  away, 
The  tint  upon  the  cheek  of  morn, 

The  dew-drops  gleaming  on  the  spray, — 
G* 


I54  THE    WISSAHICKON. 

From  wild  birds  in  their  wanderings, 
From  streamlets  leaping  to  the  sea, 

From  all  earth's  fair  and  lovely  things, 

Doth  living  praise  ascend  to  Thee ; 
*         .These  with  their  silent  tongues  proclaim 

The  varied  wonders  of  Thy  name. 

Father  !  thy  hand  hath  formed  the  flower 

And  flung  it  on  the  verdant  lea ; 
Thou  badest  it  ope  at  summer  hour ; 

Its  hues  of  beauty  speak  of  Thee. 
Thy  works  all  praise  Thee :  shall  not  man 

Alike  attune  the  grateful  hymn  ? 
Shall  he  not  join  the  lofty  strain 

Echoed  from  heart  of  seraphim  ? 
We  tune  to  Thee  our  humble  lays, 
Thy  mercy,  goodness,  love,  we  praise. 


THE    WISSAHICKON. 

UNDERNEATH  the  pointed  arches 

Of  the  forest's  darkest  aisles, 
Where  the  broken  sunlight  marches 

Eastward  through  the  deep  defiles, 
Lies  a  calm  and  twilit  valley, 

Two  rough  hills  concealed  between, 
Where  the  loose  winds  dance  and  dally 

With  the  blossoms  on  the  green, — 
In  the  dim  and  silent  forest, 

In  the  forest  dark  and  green. 


THE    WISSAHICKON.  155 

Faintly  in  the  faint  light  gleaming, 

Streams  traverse  those  shadows  deep, 
Murmuring,  as  an  infant,  dreaming, 

Smiles  and  murmurs  in  its  sleep ; 
Fitfully  each  infant  river 

Gleams  beneath  its  sedgy  screen, 
And  above  the  light  leaves  quiver, 

In  the  forest  dark  and  green, — 
In  the  dim  and  silent  forest, 

In  the  forest  dark  and  green. 

There  the  daring  kingbird  dashes 

Through  the  boughs  in  ceaseless  war, 
And  the  bright-winged  oriole  flashes 

'Midst  the  branches  like  a  star  ; 
There,  at  dusk,  the  owl  sits  lonely, 

Dreary-voiced,  and  weird  of  mien ; 
And  the  night-hawk's  soft  wing,  only, 

Stirs  the  foliage  dark  and  green, — 
In  the  dim  and  silent  forest, 

In  the  forest  dark  and  green. 

In  those  calm  and  deep  recesses 

Gleam  the  laurel-flowers  of  snow, 
And  the  sumach's  purple  tresses 

Tinge  the  pallid  stream  below ; 
There,  in  brakes  retired  and  stilly, 

Buds  and  blooms  the  rose  unseen ; 
And  by  bubbling  springs  the  lily 

Towers  above  the  verdure  green, — 
In  the  dim  and  silent  forest, 

In  the  forest  dark  and  green. 


156  THE    WISSAHICKON. 

While  with  heedless  steps  I  wander 

Through  these  scenes  of  silent  joy, 
Idly  do  I  dream  and  ponder 

O'er  my  pleasures  as  a  boy; 
And  the  light  of  bliss  departed 

Shows  the  scenes  that  once  have  been, 
Where  the  loved,  the  young,  true-hearted, 

Trod  with  me  the  mossy  green, — 
In  the  dim  and  silent  forest, 

In  the  forest  dark  and  green. 

Sometimes,  too,  the  whispered  voices 

Of  the  absent  and  the  dead 
Haunt  me,  while  the  breeze  rejoices 

'Mid  the  green  boughs  overhead ; 
And,  while  heedless  tears  are  falling, 

On  the  mossy  bank  I  lean, 
Back  the  youthful  hours  recalling 

That  I  spent  in  forest  green, — 
In  the  dim  and  silent  forest, 

In  the  forest  dark  and  green. 


NIGHT  MUSINGS.  157 


NIGH?    MUSINGS. 

I. 

GOD  of  the  morning, — glorious  sun, — farewell ! 
Here  be  my  seat  upon  this  mossy  stone 
Till  the  last  gleam  has  faded.     Gently  swell 
The  green  waves  of  the  forest,  and  a  tone 
Of  crimson  paints  each  billow.     With  a  moan 
The  faint  night-winds  like  spirits  shivering  pass, 
Fluttering  amid  the  leaves.     I  am  alone, 
Save  thought,  these  waving  branches,  this  wet  grass, 
And  yon  deep  vault  that  shrouds  this  darkly-mingled 
mass. 

n. 

O  thou  whose  dark-blue  starry  wings  expand 
Above  me,  beautiful  and^softly  bright, 
Once  more  I  welcome  thee  to  this  lone  land ; 
Once  more  I  hail  thee,  dream-commanding  Night. 
Day  hides  thee,  heaven  !   but  on  the  awakened  sight 
Through  darkness  now  thy  blended  glories  beam ; 
Thy  lamps  undying,  fields  of  tender  light, 
And  yon  red  wanderers,  whose  prophetic  gleam 
Stains  thy  pale,  slumbering  cheek  like  an  ill-omened 
dream. 

in. 

As  feels  the  wight  who  musingly  pursues 

An  unknown  path  with  heedless  steps  and  slow, 

,4 


158  NIGHT  MUSINGS. 

Till  from  a  precipice  he  starts,  and  views, 
With  leaping  heart,  the  yawning  gulf  below, 
So  shrinks  my  spirit  backward  from  the  glow 
Of  those  un fathomed  caverns,  and  my  breath 
Comes  thick  and  heavy,  and  my  heart  sinks  low : 
God, — space, — eternity  ! — mysterious  death  ! 
Hold'st  thou  the  key  to  these, — these  solemn  links  of 
faith? 

IV. 

But  back  to  earth  and  earthly  things  once  more, 
While  earthly  passions  on  the  heart  have  power. 
The  lady  of  my  love  along  the  shore 
Of  the  far  ocean  wanders  at  this  hour. 
The  night-winds  kiss  her  rock-defended  bower ; 
Below,  the  green  waves  leap  in  gladness  by; 
While  she,  my  love,  like  a  night-blooming  flower 
Swayed  in  the  hoarse  sea's  anthem,  seeks  the  sky, 
And  views  these  selfsame  stars  with  sympathetic  eye. 

v. 

Oh,  thou  art  beautiful,  my  own  sweet  one, 
And  beauty  floats  around  thee  soft  and  warm 
As  floats  the  radiance  round  the  setting  sun, 
Or  halo  round  an  angel's  pictured  form  ! 
And  as  the  full  moon  breaks  the  midnight  storm, 
Charming  the  angry  elements  to  peace, 
So  hast  thou  ever  stilled  each  wild  alarm 
That  swept  and  swelled  the  bosom  of  those  seas 
Where  rolls  my  helmless  bark  before  life's  fitful  breeze. 

VI. 

Thou  art  before  me !     On  the  darkened  air 
My  spirit  paints  thine  image  fair  as  day ; 


NIGHT  MUSINGS.  159 

Far  on  the  wind  streams  out  thy  raven  hair ; 
And,  as  I  gaze  upon  thee,  fast  away 
Fade  these  dim  woods ;  I  feel  the  cool  white  spray 
Sprinkle  my  fevered  forehead,  and  I  stand 
Beside  thee,  though  thou.  seest  me  not ;  I  lay 
My  trembling  fingers  on  thy  snowy  hand  ; 
Thou  feel'stnot,  start'st  not,  seest  naught  save  the  sea- 
washed  sand  ! 

VII. 

Oh  that  the  winds,  whose  swelling  voices  fill 
These  arches,  had  but  memory,  voice,  and  tongue  ! 
How  would  I  make  them  messengers,  and  thrill 
Their  bosoms  with  the  cadence  of  my  song  ! 
Their  course  seems  to  the  ocean,  and  along 
Their  path  should  bear  my  tributary  strain 
To  her  who  stands  the  broken  rocks  among, 
Bending  her  blue  eyes  o'er  the  flashing  main, — 
Watching,  perchance,  for  one  she  ne'er  may  see  again. 

VIII. 

How  vain  my  wish  !  how  vain  my  fancy's  art ! 
Darkness  and  distance  hold  their  place  between 
Me  and  that  flower  whose  memory  in  my  heart, 
When  all  beside  is  withered,  shall  be  green. 
Good-night !    good-night,   dear   shadow !    O'er   the 

scene 

Dark  broods  the  hopeless  present ;  vale  and  tree 
Once  more  lie  lightless ;  for  the  transient  sheen 
That  gilded  them  with  glory  fled  with  thee. 
Sweet  be  thy  midnight  dreams,  fair  dweller  by  the  sea. 


160  THE  BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN. 


THE     BRIDE     OF     HEAVEN. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

"  I  saw  thy  pulse's  maddening  play 
Wild  send  thee  Pleasure's  devious  way, 
Misled  by  Fancy's  meteor  ray, 

By  Passion  driven ; 
But  yet  the  light  that  led  astray 
Was  light  from  Heaven. 

BURNS. 

PROEM. 

BLACK,  restless  waters,  livid  skies, — 
Before  my  wistful  gaze  they  rise, 
Like  to  a  sombre  picture  seen 
When  dark-browed  twilight  stands  between 
The  advancing  night  and  flying  day. 
The  golden  dreams  have  rolled  away; 
Heavily  the  long  waves  flow, 
And  whirl  aloft  their  showers  of  snow, 
That  sink  like  glittering  stars  again, 
Quenched  in  the  deep  and  dismal  main. 
'Tis  weird  and  dreary,  darkly  clear; 
A  ghostly  murmur  in  mine  ear ; 
Strange  shadows  on  mine  eyes ;  a  thrill 
Creeps  o'er  my  flesh,  my  heart  is  still: 
It  comes  in  gloom  and  fear  to  me, — 
This  fitful  vision  of  the  sea. 

A  tall  ship  shoots  athwart  the  moon, 
Red  rising  from  the  sullen  wave 


THE  BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN.  161 

That  seems  her  brazen  disc  to  lave, 
And  starts  like  spectre  from  the  grave 

To  the  ebon  clouds  aboon. 
There's  danger  in  that  brooding  air, 
Storm  in  the  red  moon's  angry  glare, 
High  wind  in  yonder  clouds  that  sweep 
Like  mustering  squadrons  o'er  the  deep. 
Speed  on,  frail  ship,  speed  on ;  for,  hark  ! 
Thy  foes  are  thickening,  fearful  bark. 
Spread  wide  thy  fleet  wings,  and  away. 
'Tis  vain  !   'tis  vain  !   Heaven  scowls  on  thee. 
Where  shalt  thou  be 

At  the  dawn  of  another  day? 

Thus,  Ocean  !  do  I  love  to  trace 
The  tempest  mirrored  in  thy  face ; 
Thus  mark  him  with  exulting  stride 
Span  thy  dark  waters  chafed  and  wide, 
While  crushing,  with  an  angry  frown, 
The  rising  rebel  wave-tops  down. 
Mighty  and  beautiful !  with  thee, 
My  thoughts  are  fetterless  and  free ; 
Forth  on  the  whirlwind's  rushing  wings, 
To  thee  my  eager  spirit  springs, 
Impatient,  uncontrolled  to  sweep 
Thy  pathless  bosom,  glorious  deep. 
With  the  lone  sea-fowl,  on  thy  breast 
Of  rocking  waves  I  take  my  rest, 
And  calmly  hear, 

With  an  untroubled  ear, 
The  sounding  voices  of  the  night 
Sweep  o'er  the  yeasty  foam  that  glimmers  cold  and 

white. 

14* 


1 62  THE  BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN. 

There  is  a  wild  delirious  joy 

Where  the  billows  revel  and  destroy; 

But  solemn  it  is,  and  strange,  I  ween, 

When  my  soul  goes  down, 
Through  the  waters  waxing  darkly  brown, 
Through  the  dull  deep  no  longer  green, 
Down  to  the  drear  mid-ocean,  where 
The  skeleton  forms  of  lost  ships  are, 
That  may  not  rise,  nor  sink,  nor  move, 
Nor  feel  the  wind  that  sports  above, 
But,  inch  by  inch,  in  slow  decay 
And  stagnant  silence  waste  away; 
Or  far  in  the  remotest  deeps, 
Where  on  the  earth's  foundation  sleeps 
The  wreck  of  ruined  worlds  struck  down 
And  shriveled  by  Jehovah's  frown. 
Vast  cliffs  and  promontories,  piled 
In  ruin  and  disorder  wild, 
Are  standing  in  that  stagnant  slime, 
Uncouth,  eternal,  and  sublime, 
Iced  by  the  hands  of  ages  o'er, 
And  swathed  in  darkness  evermore. 

Empires  were  there, 

But  they  had  gone 

Ere  yet  the  golden  sun 
Became  the  centre  of  a  system  fair 
As  ever  rose  before  the  Almighty's  face 
Amid  the  waste  of  space. 
Thus  shall  they  stand, 

Seen  only  by  the  Eternal  Eye, 
In  drear  confusion,  rudely  grand, 

Till  Time  shall  die. 


THE   BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN.  163 

Unmoved,  save  when  the  fiery  surge  breaks  forth 
From  the  hot  centre  of  the  earth, 

And  heaves  to  light 

An  island  in  a  night. 

From  these  my  spirit  springs  again 
Up  to  the  surface  of  the  main, 
And  skirts  like  light  those  radiant  isles 
Where  regal  summer  calmly  smiles, 
Careers  with  the  careering  breeze 
Along  the  bosom  of  the  seas, 
And  roves,  forgetful  of  control, 
From  the  green  tropics  to  the  pole, 
Makes  fleets  of  wandering  mists,  and  fills 
Their  forms  with  beings  as  she  wills, 
Lives  through  extremes  of  pain  and  bliss, 
And  fancies  many  a  scene  like  this. 

BOOK  I. 


The  rushing  waters  closed  around, 
And  silenced,  with  a  sullen  sound, 
The  last  loud  shriek  of  frenzied  fear 
That  rent  the  shining  atmosphere, 
Impelled  by  the  convulsive  breath 
Of  beings  in  the  grasp  of  death  ! 
An  eddying  whirl,  that  fell  and  rose, 
And  throbbed  and  settled  to  repose, — 
A  pale  spot  fading  into  brown, 
Where  the  tall  mast  sank  slowly  down,- 
A  sobbing  murmur,  deep  and  low, 
Unearthly  in  its  wailing  flow, 


1 64  THE   BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN. 

That  froze  the  creeping  flesh  with  dread, 
Like  midnight  whispers  from  the  dead, — 
Along  the  deep  a  rippling  quiver, — 
And  all  was  hushed  and  mute  forever. 


ii. 

They  are  alone  upon  the  sea, 

That  hopeless  and  forsaken  three, 

The  remnant  of  as  staunch  a  crew 

As  ever  stemmed  the  treacherous  blue ; 

Their  boat  is  blistering  in  the  glare 

That  fills  the  hot  and  quivering  air, 

And  idly  sleeps,  bereft  of  motion, 

A  speck  upon  the  dazzling  ocean. 

And  morn,  and  night,  and  morn  again, 

Have  swept  like  shadows  o'er  the  main, 

But  on  their  wings  no  wind  has  come, 

No  cloud  has  checked  the  cheerless  dome, 

So  fearful  in  its  dusky  dress, 

So  awful  in  its  loneliness. 


in. 

'Tis  a  fair  sight  to  gaze  upon, 
A  serpent  basking  in  the  sun, 

A  glancing  snake, 
Coiled  in  a  green  Brazilian  brake, 
In  many  a  rich  and  mazy  fold, 
And  girt  with  rings  of  azure  and  of  gold. 
Yet  whoso  unawares  draws  near 
Starts  backward  with  a  nameless  fear : 
Those  starry  eyes,  those  glancing  eyes, 
That  mock  the  gems  of  tropic  skies, 


THE  BRIDE    OF  HE  A  YEN.  1 65 

Have  in  their  deeps  a  dangerous  light, 
That  blasts,  while  it  compels,  the  charmed  reluctant 

sight. 

And  dark  destruction  clings  for  evermore 
Unto  the  form  a  fallen  angel  wore. 

IV. 

So  looks  the  tideless  sea  that  smiles 
Around  the  green  Ionian  isles, 
That  sea  whose  slow-advancing  tread 
Is  o'er  the  dust  of  empires  dead, 
Whose  murmuring  ripples  softly  creep 
Where  long-forgotten  heroes  sleep, 
And  whose  rough  waves  are  rudely  hurled 
O'er  clay  that  held,  while  quick,  the  sceptre  of  the 
world. 

The  heedless  glance 
That  scans  that  water's  calm  expanse 
Recoils,  as  conscious  that  beneath 
Yawn  horror  and  unholy  death, 
And,  shuddering,  sees  the  crystal  flood 
Change  to  a  ghastly  waste  of  blood, 
Beholds  the  countless  hosts  that  sleep 
Unhouseled  in  its  bosom  deep, 
And  hastily  prays  a  broken  prayer 
O'er  the  dark  deeds  enacted  there, — 
For  every  crime  that  stains  our  race 
Has  marked  with  guilt  its  laughing  face. 

v. 

On  that  serene  and  azure  sea, 

The  isle-gemmed  belt  of  Italic,  * 


T66  THE   BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN. 

'Tis  noon,  high  noon;  the  archer  sun 
Sits  like  a  conqueror  in  mid-heaven, 
Throned  on  a  blood-red  iron  sphere, 
And  through  the  air  so  dusk  and  drear, 
Through  the  brazen  atmosphere, 

Unceasingly  his  bolts  are  driven, 
His  poisonous  arrows,  tipped  with  death, 
That  quench  the  gasping  sufferer's  breath, 
And  pierce  with  quick  and  torturous  pain 
Through  the  seared  eyeball  to  the  brain. 


VI. 

They  are  three  that  wither  there. 
A  shaven  monk,  in  seeming  prayer, 
His  rosary  his  lean  hand  strains, 
All  corded  with  the  starting  veins. 
His  thin  gray  locks  and  frosted  brow 
The  wintry  cold  of  age  avow ; 
Yet  somewhat  of  resolve  sits  high 
On  his  cold  front  and  pale-blue  eye, — 
As  if  he  vainly  strove  to  quell 
His  rising  heart's  convulsive  swell, 
And  calm  his  throbbing  brain  to  sleep, 
So  racked  with  anguish  sharp  and  deep. 

VII. 

Behind  him,  on  the  thwarts  at  length, 
Shorn  sadly  of  his  massive  strength, 
His  hand  upon  the  accustomed  helm, 
Frail  sceptre  of  his  watery  realm, 
Reclines  a  form  whose  breast  and  cheek 
The  wanderer  of  the  wave  bespeak  ; 


THE   BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN.  ^ 

That  sinewy  chest,  exposed  and  brown, 
That  lowering  brow's  habitual  frown, 
Where  the  red  sun's  unbroken  glare 
Half  cloaks  the  pallor  of  despair, 
Discourse  of  dangers  long  defied, 
An  iron  frame,  a  heart  of  pride, 
But  yield  no  token  of  the  mind,          * 

That  sees  with  unmoved  eye 

The  funeral  train  of  hope  pass  by, 
And  on  the  wreck  of  earth  looks  quiet  and  resigned. 
His  bloodshot  eye,  of  lurid  gloom, 

O'er  the  dull  waste  rolls  wearily, 

Where  solitude  sits  drearily, 
Like  darkness  o'er  the  tomb: 
A  bank  of  dense  and  dusky  haze 
Shuts  in  his  strained  and  anxious  gaze. 


VIII. 

The  fragment  of  a  shattered  sail, 
Worn  to  a  thread  by  wave  and  gale, 
Is  stretched  upon  a  broken  oar, 
The  mute  and  kneeling  monk  before; 
And  in  its  hotly-stifling  shade, 
Behold  !  a  woman's  form  is  laid. 
Is  she  not  sadly,  strangely  fair? 
How  soft  her  tangled  dark-brown  hair  ! 
How  faint  the  hectic  tint  that  streaks 
The  paleness  of  her  thin  pure  cheeks ! 
Like  'moonbeams  white, 
Mingling  on  an  Alpine  height, 
High  up  in  air,  snow-crowned  and  cold, 
With  the  last  flush  of  reddening  gold, 


1 68  THE  BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN. 

Caught  faintly  from  the  fading  day, 
Hurrying  so  rapidly  away. 
Her  weary,  tearless  eye  is  hid 
By  the  long-fringed,  transparent  lid, 
And  her  blue-veined  brow  has  grown 
White  as  the  chiseled  Parian  stone. 
Thjs  robes  that  thinly  drape  that  form 
Are  rent  and  sullied  by  the  storm, 
And  lassitude  and  pain  oppress 
Those  limbs  so  formed  for  tenderness ; 
Yet  round  her  lips  of  faintest  red, 

That  move,  but  murmur  not, 
A  rising  smile  is  softly  spread 

From  some  half-happy  thought. 
Ah,  beautiful !  what  destiny 
Has  cast  thee  here  on  this  lone  sea, 
Withering  so  drearily  ? 

IX. 

Thus,  silent  and  despaired,  they  wait 
The  fiat  of  approaching  fate  ; 
And  round  them  the  dull  wave  grows  rife 
With  horrid  and  unnatural  life ; 
Strange  nameless  creatures  slowly  float, 
With  fibrous  arms,  around  the  boat, — 
Spawned  from  the  ocean's  stagnant  womb, 

Made  pregnant  by  the  burning  sun  ; 
But  the  next  wind  shall  ring  their  doom, — 

Their  short  existence  done. 

x. 

The  monk  looked  out  upon  the  main, 
Stifling  the  sharp  and  inward  pain 


THE   BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN.  169 

That  gnawed  his  heart  unceasingly 
With  deep  and  quenchless  agony. 

Nothing  was  there, 

But  through  the  air 
Empurpled  shadows  glided  slowly, 
In  varying  forms,  like  ghosts  unholy. 
And  solemnly  he  saw  them  wheel 
Along  the  waste  of  burning  steel, 
Till  Fancy's  fevered  power  arrayed 
With  form  and  shape  the  shifting  shade. 

XI. 

A  ship  rose  dimly  to  his  gaze, 
And  loomed  above  the  dusky  haze; 
He  saw  her  tall  bows,  stained  and  brown, 
O'er  the  wide  waters  bearing  down, 
Piling  the  snowy  foam  before  her, 
And  her  white  sails  towering  o'er  her ; 
So  near  she  came  that  he  could  mark 
Each  spar  upon  the  advancing  bark, 
And  see  the  seamen  idly  lean 
Above  the  bulwarks'  mossy  screen  ; 
Then  all  grew  dim,  confused,  and  gray, 
And  melted  silently  away. 

XII. 

Anon,  a  spreading  landscape  grew 
Distinct  and  palpable  to  view. 
Blue  lake  embowered  in  clustered  trees, 
And  rippled  by  the  cool  sweet  breeze, 
Reflected  brokenly  and  dim 
The  white-walled  mansions  round  the  brim ; 
H  15 


THE   BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN. 

And  boats,  securely  anchored,  lay 

In  many  a  winding  cove  and  bay, 

While  mingled  music's  dying  swell 

On  his  charmed  ear  inconstant  fell ; 

But  still  with  sullen  pain  returned 

The  maddening  thought  that  inly  burned, — 

"Alone — alone — ah,  woe  is  me  ! 

Lost — on  this  wide,  wild,  open  sea  !" 

XIII. 

He  looked  on  the  face  of  the  mariner, 

But  that  was  vacant  with  despair ; 

His  thoughts  were  wandering  far  away, 

By  calm  Genoa's  peaceful  bay, 

Where,  'mid  Albano's  crumbling  towers, 

Rise  his  brown  home  and  almond  bowers, 

And  seems  he  to  behold  the  tree 

Where  those  he  loves  at  noon  retire, — 
Whence  his  young  children  wistfully 

Look  seaward  for  their  wandering  sire. 
That  look  of  sullen,  hopeless  gloom 
Lowered  on  the  monk  like  threatening  doom, 
And  mournfully  he  turned  his  head, 
Heavy  and  hot,  like  molten  lead, 
And  fixed  his  eyes  on  where  was  laid 
The  form  of  the  unconscious  maid. 

XIV. 

So  silent  was  her  trance-like  sleep, 
And  calmness  so  serenely  deep 
Lay  on  her  features,  that  with  fear 
He  feebly  started  from  his  seat, 


THE  BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN. 

And  bent  his  head,  her  breath  to  hear, 

And  felt  if  yet  her  bosom  beat. 
The  sternness  melted  in  his  eye, 
And  tears — but,  ah,  the  fount  was  dry  ! 
He  could  but  smooth  her  locks  away, 
And  press  her  thin  cheeks  tenderly, 
And  feed  with  hopeful  words, — that  he 
Felt  were  but  mocking  misery. 
"Egeria  !  canst  thou  hear  me  speak, 
Or  feel  me  press  thy  waning  cheek  ? 
Oh,  answer,  dearest;  let  me  know 
Thy  heart  breaks  not  with  this  deep  woe. 
Fly  from  despair's  unholy  calm, 
For  heaven  has  hope  and  blessed  balm ; 
And  wisely  falls  the  chastening  rod. 
Oh,  gentle  daughter,  trust  in  God." 


xv. 

She  heard  him  not,  she  answered  not ; 
With  other  thoughts  her  heart  was  fraught. 
Along  her  face  there  passed  a  glow 
Like  moonlight  on  a  waste  of  snow, 
But  changeful  as  the  gleam  that  dyes 
The  clouds  of  summer's  evening  skies. 
What  did  she  see  ?  not  that  lean  face 
Grown  dark  in  agony's  embrace ! 
What  did  she  hear?  not  that  sad  voice 
That  chills  where  it  would  fain  rejoice  ! 
But  who  be  they, — those  forms  that  glide 
Like  sunlit  vapors  by  his  side  ? 
Their  passionless,  star-like  eyes  control 
And  fill  with  calm  her  troubled  soul ; 


171 


172  THE   BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN. 

Their  long  white  garments  slowly  sweep, 
And  fan  her  into  balmier  sleep. 
What  may  they  be?  since  dawning  life 
Revealed  the  land  of  pain  and  strife 
Through  which  her  perilous  footpath  lay, 
Those  shapes  have  lingered  round  her  way, 
Still  fainter  when  the  skies  were  bright, 
Still  nearest  in  the  darkest  night. 

XVI. 

Hark  to  those  sounds,  low-tonjsd  and  slow, 

Like  songful  voices  from  below, 

From  deep-submerged  and  sunken  halls  ! 

Such  sailors  hear  when  nights  are  dark, 
Slow  climbing  up  the  crystal  walls 

And  hovering  round  their  rocking  bark ! 

i. 

Pilgrim  through  the  lands  of  time, 
Daughter  of  a  nightless  clime, 
Mystic  child  of  sorrow,  cheer  thee; 
Kindred  spirits  linger  near  thee. 
Hurt  and  Harm  and  Fear  surround  thee, 
But  a  viewless  guard  hath  bound  thee, 
And  the  evil  cannot  move 
The  sister  we  so  dearly  love. 

2. 

Lo  !  we  charm  away  the  pain, 
And  thy  scorched  and  troubled  brain 
With  our  quiet  we  will  fill, 
And  the  magic  of  our  will 


THE   BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN. 

Shall  relieve  the  pang  that  lies 
Deep  within  thy  burning  eyes; 
Words  of  mighty  power  shall  keep 
Undisturbed  thy  settled  sleep 
Soft  and  cooling  hands  shall  chase 
All  the  fever  from  thy  face  ; 
From  the  filmy  dews  of  dawn, 
Ere  the  sun  has  kissed  the  lawn, 
Aerial  fingers  weave  a  spell 
For  the  one  we  love  so  well. 


Every  hour  we  shall  be  near; — 
In  the  moments  of  deep  fear, 
Let  thy  spirit  not  despair, 
For  the  armies  of  the  air 
Hem  thee  with  a  circle  strong, 
To  defend  thy  path  from  wrong, 
And  the  shapes  of  gloom  retire 
From  that  living  wall  of  fire. 


But  beware  thy  heart  to  stain 

With  an  earthly  joy  or  pain  : 

Let  thy  aspirations  rise 

To  the  calm  and  placid  skies; 

Power  divine  will  not  avail 

Where  human  hopes  and  fears  assail. 


Fast  the  fated  hour  is  nearing, 
When  thy  destiny  appearing, 
15* 


173 


174  THE  BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN. 

From  thy  side  our  forms  may  banish, 
And  thy  sinless  dreams  shall  vanish, 
As  the  rising  breeze  of  morn 
Sweeps  the  cobweb  from  the  thorn. 

Ah  !  beware, 

For  the  air 

Of  that  fair  but  deadly  shore 
May  destroy  thy  bloom  forever ; 
But  we  shall  desert  thee  never, — 

Evermore ! 

XVII. 

She  moved ;  she  woke  ;  she  faintly  smiled ; 
She  raised  her  eyes  so  bluely  mild, 
And  gazed  upon  the  monk,  who  bent 
Above  with  anxious  thoughts  intent : 
''Nay,  fear  not,  father;   those  I  love 

Have  passed  me  in  my  slumber  near ; 
Bright  forms  have  left  their  thrones  above, 

With  hope  my  sinking  heart  to  cheer. 
The  white  shape  of  my  dreams  has  stood 
Beside  me  on  the  shining  flood, 
And  told  of  succor  soon  to  come, 
To  bear  the  weary  wanderer  home." 
Sorely  perplexed,  the  father  gazed 
Like  one  distracted  and  amazed, 
Gazed  on  her  face,  where  all  was  clear 
As  young  April's  atmosphere. 
He  thought  her  brain,  to  frenzy  wrought 
By  some  sweet  madness,  was  distraught ; 
He  strove,  and  answer' none  could  make, 
But  sighed  as  if  his  heart  would  break. 


THE  BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN.  175 

XVIII. 

What  sound  comes  rolling  o'er  the  deep? 

Why  sullen  heaves  the  monster  main, 
Woke  like  Behemoth  from  his  sleep 

And  slowly  stirred  to  life  again  ? 
And  what  has  fallen  o'er  the  air, 
That  turns  to  gray  its  fiery  glare  ? 
And  wherefore  sluggishly  rocks  the  boat  ? 
What  may  these  boding  signs  denote? 
The  Tempest !     Hark  !  the  rising  storm  ! — 
Yon  sulphurous  clouds  with  lightning  warm, 
That  fast  unfold  their  wings  of  gloom, 
Come  charged  with  rescue  or  with  doom  ! 

XIX. 

Up  sprung  the  mariner ;  his  eye 

Scanned  ocean,  air,  and  vaulted  sky, 

And  marked  with  kindling,  hasty  glance 

The  aspect  of  that  changed  expanse. 

Far  to  the  south,  where  from  the  sea 

The  lava  crags  of  Stromboli 

Rise  crowned  with  quenchless  fire  that  sheds 

A  dreary  halo  round  their  heads, 

Long  lines  of  light  foretell 

The  unchained  winds'  impetuous  swell, 

And  the  crisped  wave  in  darkness  shrouds 

The  shadows  of  the  advancing  clouds. 

These  sights  and  sounds,  foreboding  strife, 

Were  to  the  sailor  freshening  life; 

And  while  the  monk  and  maiden  hear 

The  rising  gale  with  anxious  fear, 

He  felt  his  heart  grow  firm  and  free 

And  swell  with  hope  exultingly. 


176  THE    BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN. 

His  deep  rough  voice  the  silence  broke. 

And  swelled  to  triumph  as  he  spoke ; 

"Now,  monk — now,  father,  prayer  be  thine, — 

This  quivering  shell  of  plank  is  mine! 

Down  with  that  sail :   we  shall  not  need 

Its  slender  aid  to  urge  our  speed  ; 

Nor  shall  thy  ward  require  its  shade, — 

The  rain  will  soon  refresh  the  maid. 

Here,  on  our  bows,  the  land  must  lie: 

The  gale  comes  from  tbe  southern  sky. 

Pray  on,  for,  monk,  the  hours  are  few 

Till  earth  or  ocean  claims  our  crew. 

This  stagnant  calm  had  froze  my  blood, — 

I  think  my  heart  will  burst  with  joy ; 
Oh,  blessed  be  this  rising  flood, 

That  comes  to  rescue  or  destroy  !" 
In  his  hot  eye  some  drops  assembling 
A  moment  burningly  stood  trembling, 
Then  slowly  rolled  adown  his  face ; 
But  his  rough  hand  erased  the  trace, 
And,  turning  with  determined  air, 
He  saw  his  shallop  trimmed  with  care, 
And  charged  that  monk  and  maid  should  not 
One  instant  leave  their  present  spot. 
Hard  strove  the  father  to  control 
The  strong  emotions  of  his  soul ; 
Egeria's  head  was  on  his  knee, 
And  o'er  her  he  bent  caressingly, 
And  sought  with  hope  her  heart  to  cheer ; 
But  scarce  the  words  might  pierce  her  ear, 
For  she,  relieved  of  that  dull  pain, 
Had  sunk  to  apathy  again. 


THE   BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN.  177 

XX. 

Meanwhile,  far,  dark,  along  the  deep, 
Their  onward  march  the  vapors  keep; 
Like  mountains  by  an  earthquake  tost, 
Like  angry  host  encountering  host, 
The  clouds,  thick-piled  and  sable-towered, 
And  darkly  vast,  above  them  lowered. 
A  low,  deep,  rushing  sound,  that  chilled 
The  quaking  heart  with  terror  filled, 
Went  moaning  mournfully  away 

In  gusty  sobs  along  the  main, 

Now  blackened,  like  a  fire-scorched  plain, 
Beneath  the  sickening  light  of  day. 
Sudden  the  ebon  wall  was  riven, 
And  from  the  very  heart  of  heaven 
Gushed  forth  \  stream  like  molten  steel. 

Sharp  flashing  fell  the  thunder-stroke  ; 

The  fountains  of  the  air  had  broke ; 
The  Alp-like  masses  seemed  to  reel, 
Down  came  the  plunging  rain,  and  specked 
The  wave,  by  foam  already  flecked, 
While,  following  rapidly  behind, 
Burst  on  the  boat  the  sweeping  wind. 
The  shallop  quivered,  sunk,  and  rose, 
While  the  white  brine  washed  o'er  her  bows, 
Then,  glancing  through  the  parted  spray, 
Like  arrow  flashed  away — away  ! 

XXI. 

Away — away !  a  shade, — a  dream, — 
A  shooting  and  uncertain  beam, — 
H* 


178  THE   BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN. 

A  dark  spot  in  the  wild  turmoil 

Of  leaping  waves  that  round  her  boil, — 

Seen — gone — as  mocking  meteor  light 

Streams  through  the  cold  December  night, — 

Swift  as  a  single  snow-flake  driven 

Athwart  the  turbulous  face  of  heaven, 

The  shallop  flies.     Now,  mariner  ! 

Free  be  thy  heart  from  tint  of  fear, 

And  firm  thy  arm,  or  never  more 

Thine  eyes  shall  hail  thy  native  shore ; 

One  thoughtless  motion  of  thy  helm, 

And  this  wide,  watery  hell  shall  whelm 

Thee  and  thy  charge  !     As  pine-tree  stands 

On  tempest-wasted  mountain  land, 

When,  shrieking  round  his  head,  come  forth 

The  icy  demons  of  the  North, 

So  firm,  unflinching,  towers  his  form, — 

The  master-spirit  of  the  storm. 


XXII. 

On — on  !  the  flashing  waves  divide 
Nigh  even  with  the  skiff's  low  side; 
Beat  level  by  the  tempest's  might, 
The  wide  sea  glitters  wintry  white ; 
Through  the  slant  rain  the  petrel  screams ; 
Far,  fast,  and  clear  the  lightning  streams ; 
Time  flies;  day  wanes;  they  heed  it  not, — 
All  feeling  is  absorbed,  forgot 
In  that  which  stifles  heart  and  breath, — 
The  pending  strife  of  life  and  death. 
Light  sickens  in  those  rimy  skies, — 
Oh,  will  the  dear  shores  never  rise  ? 


THE   BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN.  j  79 

The  ocean  has  engulfed  the  sun, — 
When  will  this  mad  suspense  be  done  ? 
Away  ! — less  dangerous  than  the  shore 
Is  even  this  'wildering  tempest's  roar  ! 

XXIII. 

The  night  has  fallen,  but  not  in  gloom ; 
Like  the  blue  witch-fire  round  a  tomb, 
Far  kindled  o'er  the  sweltering  brine 
The  heatless  fires  of  ocean  shine. 
The  pale  phosphoric  flames  display 
A  twilight  like  the  ghost  of  day, 
Uncheering  as  the  light  that  glows 
Through  the  long  nights  on  polar  snows  ; 
And  on,  and  6n,  through  mist  and  gleam, 
Still  flies  the  skiff ;  behind,  a  stream 
Of  star-like  foam  her  track  defines, 
In  curved  and  brightly-mingled  lines. 
Christ !  it  is  fearful  thus  to  be 
Whirled  through  this  tost  and  boiling  sea, 
With  none  to  heed  us,  none  to  pray 
For  hope,  for  heaven,  or  for  day  ! 

XXIV. 

A  lurid  ray  broke  through  the  black 

Dense  veil  that  swathed  their  onward  track  ; 

Now  hidden,  now  revealed,  it  shone, 

As  the  red  planet  Mars  alone 

May  show  when  winds  have  rent  the  clouds 

That  midnight  skies  of  March  enshroud ; 

Is  it  from  land  ?  that  sullen  roar 

May  be  the  breakers  on  the  shore  ; — 


I  So  THE  BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN. 

No  !  blacker  than  the  boding  skies, 
Behold  a  ship  before  them  rise. 

xxv. 

Hove  to  the  wind,  each  sea  curled  o'er, 

And,  raging,  lashed  her  dusky  prore ; 

No  canvas  on  her  spars  was  set, 

Save  the  storm-stay-sail,  rent  and  wet ; 

And,  in  the  foretop,  like  a  star, 

The  lamp  that  reached  them  from  afar 

Encircled  with  a  misty  haze, 

Yet,  hopeful,  held  their  anxious  gaze. 

The  monk  half  rose,  he  scarce  knew  why, 

Except  that  human  hearts  were  nigh, 

And  feebly  shouted,  but  the  noise 

Of  the  fierce  wind  o'erpowered  his  voice; 

Even  the  rude  sailor,  though  he  knew 

How  vain  for  succor  there  to  sue, 

His  rough  hand  raising  to  his  lip, 

Sung  hoarsely  loud,  "Ahoy  the  ship  !" 

Far  down  to  leeward  died  the  sound, 

No  answering  challenge  pealed  around ; 

If  heard,  'twas  but  to  thrill  with  fear 

The  heart  of  some  lone  mariner. 

On  flew  the  skiff:   the  lost  again 

Were  lonely  on  the  surging  main. 

XXVI. 

The  storm  passed  on ;   far  northward  flew 
The  billowy  clouds,  and  deeply  blue 
Remained  the  arching  vault  of  night, 
Set  thick  with  mounting  stars,  and  bright 


THE    BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN.  181 

With  moonlight, — for  the  moon  shone  clear, 
Throned  in  the  silvery  atmosphere  ; 
But  the  sweet  light  soothes  not  to  sleep, 
The  curbless  winds  unbated  sweep, 
And  darkly  heaves  the  answering  deep. 

XXVII. 

At  last, — 'tis  no  delusion  now, — 

At  last  the  land  ! — that  frowning  brow 

Of  rocks,  low  jutting  o'er  the  sea, 

Is  stern  and  rude  reality. 

Joy,  wanderers,  joy  !   all  peril  past, 

Behold  the  haven  desired  at  last ; 

Those  banks  of  yeasty  foam  inclose 

A  land  of  rest  and  calm  repose. 

Press  on,  nor  think  what  dangers  stretch 

Low  lurking  round  that  dubious  beach. 

xxvni. 

It  seemed  an  island,  small  and  lone, 
But  yet  not  vacant,  for  there  shone 
From  a  rude  tower  a  lamp,  that  gave 
Some  dim  rays,  streaming  o'er  the  wave; 
Faint  were  they,  and  scarce  served  to  show 
The  fretting  breakers,  far  below. 
-  Yet  to  each  wearied  one 

They  seemed  a  rising  sun, 
Pure  as  the  light  that,  fadeless,  falls 
Around  the  high  celestial  walls, 
When  on  their  flashing  hinges  swing, 
All  radiant  as  a  seraph's  wing, 
Apart  the  sapphire  gates  of  heaven, 
Before  the  soul  that  soars  forgiven, 
16 


1 82  THE  BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN. 

From  sinful  fears  and  troubles  past, 

To  calm,  unbroken  rest  at  last. 

The  sailor  searched,  with  eager  eye, 

Amidst  the  breakers,  to  espy 

Some  calmer  spot,  through  which  his  prore 

Might  pass  uninjured  to  the  shore 

All  surged  with  foam ;  no  opening  lay, — 

No  path  to  some  securer  bay. 

But  useless  thought ;   for,  sink  or  float, 

Like  lightning  forward  flashed  the  boat. 


XXIX. 

A  minute  might  the  dial  trace, — 
Eternity  was  in  its  space  ! 
One  slow,  long  minute,  devious  through 
The  splintered  rocks  the  shallop  flew ; 
And,  still  untouched,  that  stalwart  arm 
Sufficed,  as  yet,  to  shield  from  harm. 
But  fate  looked  dark, — a  ledge  of  rock 
Rose  through  the  breakers'  thundering  shock, 

And  joined  the  mainland,  dusk  and  dun. 
Well  thought  the  mariner,  as  fast 
In  the  deep  gloom  he  drifted  past, 

"  That  haven  might  be  boldly  won  !" 
He  hastily  a  glance  cast  o'er 
The  stern  and  danger-bristling  shore ; 
He  saw  the  sgray  curled  high  and  white, 
Like  snow-drifts  on  a  wintry  night. 
One  quick  resolve, — one  desperate  spring,— 
On  flew  the  bark  with  speedier  wing ; 
That  slender  hope,  that  refuge  fleet, 
Had  passed  forever  from  his  feet, 


THE  BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN.  183 

But  his  long  fingers  grasped  the  edge 
That  topped  the  low,  rough  granite  ledge, 
And,  straining  every  nerve,  he  strove 
To  reach  the  sheltered  space  above. 


XXX. 

But,  ah,  too  late  !  he  found  his  strength, 

By  watching  long,  and  want,  at  length 

Was  sorely  wasted,  and  he  felt 

His  new-born  hopes  like  water  melt. 

The  wind  roared  round  him,  and  beneath 

Dark  flashing  yawned  the  jaws  of  death ; 

While,  frenzied  by  his  strong  despair, 

His  shouts  of  terror  rent  the  air ; 

And,  with  one  last  heart-rending  yell, 

His  fingers  slackened,  and  he  fell. 

The  rocks  his  falling  body  tore, 

And  crushed  and  bathed  the  limbs  with  gore ; 

The  wave  received  the  falling  form, 

And,  reddening  with  the  life-blood  warm, 

A  moment  sported  with  its  spoil, 

That  struggled  in  the  fierce  turmoil, 

Then  lashed  the  rocks  with  headlong  force, 

And  washed  away  a  lifeless  corse. 

XXXI. 

Sleep,  mariner,  serenely  sleep  ! 

Thou  needst  not  heed  the  rocking  deep ; 

Thy  wrung  heart  shall  no  longer  moan 

For  those  awaiting  thy  return  ; 

That  instant's  agony  has  cast 

Pain,  Grief,  and  Peril  to  the  past ; 


1 84  THE  BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN. 

Life  leaves  thee,  with  her  train  of  woes; 
Oblivion  rocks  thee  to  repose  ; 
The  sea,  that  was  thy  dwelling-place, 
Hath  caught  thee  to  a  last  embrace ; 
And  the  loud  surge's  tuneless  swell 
Shall  ring  for  aye  thy  funeral  knell. 

XXXII. 

No  longer  lay  the  helm  controlled : 
The  boat  amid  the  breakers  rolled, 
In  instant  peril  that  each  shock 
Should  dash  her  on  the  pointed  rock, — 
Till  one  huge  wave,  amidst  the  rest, 
Heaved  from  the  deep  his  flaming  crest, 
That  o'er  the  others  towered  at  once, 
Like  mightier  Anak  midst  his  sons, 
And,  in  his  arms  the  quivering  shell 
Fast  clasping,  swept  with  headlong  swell 
O'er  chasm  and  reef,  as  charging  knight 
Erst  burst  along  the  field  of  fight, 
Till  far  and  high  on  that  rough  strand 
He  left  her  shattered  on  the  sand. 

XXXIII. 

The  priest,  though  bruised  and  stunned  and  faint, 

Yet  struggled  to  his  feet,  and  bent 

Above  his  lovely  charge,  who  lay 

Insensible,  and  cold  as  clay, 

And  raised  her  in  his  arms,  and  strove 

To  bear  her  to  the  beach  above. 

But  vain  that  last  impulsive  start : 

Cold  sickness  curdled  round  his  heart ; 


THE   BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN.  185 

A  deadly  chill  his  limbs  swept  o'er; 
He  sank,  exhausted,  on  the  shore. 
Yet  to  his  swimming  eyes  it  seemed 
That  torches  redly  round  him  gleamed, 
And  through  his  numbing  brain  there  ran 
A  sound  that  seemed  the  voice  of  man ; 
Then  cold  oblivion  sunk  like  night, 
And  closed  his  ear,  and  quenched  his  sight. 


XXXIV. 

Strange  were  the  scenes  and  forms  that  grew, 
With  life  returning,  to  his  view : 
Above  his  head  black  arches  sprung, 
Around,  rough  walls  with  armor  hung 
Showed  grimly  in  the  faint  light  cast 
By  rude  lamps  flaring  in  the  blast. 
A  host  of  dark  and  lowering  eyes, 
That  scanned  him  with  displeased  surprise, 
Pressed  round,  as  if  to  watch  the  strife 
Betwixt  the  powers  of  death  and  life ; 
When,  sudden  as  ships  the  waves  divide, 
The  circling  band  was  opened  wide, 
And  hastily  stept  a  form  between, 
Of  haughtier  stride  and  darker  mien. 
On  the  monk's  breast  his  hand  he  laid 
With  iron  force,  and,  bending,  said, 
"Well,  priest,  what  cheer?  What  fate  has  driven 
Thy  ill-starred  bark  to  this  rude  haven  ? 
Speak  !  dost  thou  heed  ?  thou  needst  not  fear ; 
From  whence,  and  what  has  cast  thee  here? 
Thy  child  ? — oh,  naught  the  girl  befell : 
My  gentle  mates  will  tend  her  well. 
1 6* 


1 86  THE    BRIDE    OF  HEAVEN. 

But  answer,  if  thou  canst — Well,  rest. 
What,  Flora!"     From  within  there  came 
An  old  and  soured  and  wrinkled  dame. 
"Take  to  thy  chamber  yonder  maid, 
And  have  her  on  thy  pallet  laid ; 
Strip  off  those  robes  so  tempest-worn, 
And  chafe  her  limbs  till  life  return ; 
Quick,  to  thy  task!  and,  comrades,  take 
This  holy  man,  for  Mary's  sake; 
A  saintly  prize  'tis  ours  to  guard, 
And  doubtless  Heaven  will  well  reward; 
But  haste, — life's  streams  but  feebly  flow, 
And  miracles  have  ceased  below." 
Mocking  he  spoke,  and  waved  his  hand. 
Round  crowded  the  obedient  band  : 
A  couch  received  the  monk,  and  fast 
A  slumber  deep  as  nature's  last 
Drew  round  each  sense  her  curtain  close, 
And  wrapped  him  into  calm  repose. 


XXXV. 

And  to  Egeria,  sleeping,  stole 
The  phantom  sisters  of  her  soul ; 
Their  low,  delusive  voices  thrilled 
Her  heart  with  tranquil  rapture  filled^; 
Even  the  wild  storm,  through  muffling  sleep, 
A  slumberous  melody  did  keep, 
And,  mingling  with  its  organ  swell, 
Fine  tones  and  softer  voices  fell, 
Sweet  as  the  songs  that  loved  ones  greet, 
Mid  broken  dreams  and  slumbers  light, 


SONG    OF  DANCERS.  187 

When  a  wild  horn  in  cadence  sweet 
Is  winded  at  the  lone  midnight ; 

"Lo,  thy  star,  ascending  high, 
Watches  in  the  solemn  sky ; 
Baffled  tempest-fretting  sea 
Had  no  power  to  injure  thee ; 
But  the  hour  draws  on  apace, 
Fatal  to  thy  fiery  race. 
Gentle  sister,  watch  and  pray 
Through  the  coming  evil  day." 


SONG    OF    DANCERS. 

GREEN  island  !  King  Krion's  white  damsels  are  we, 
King  Krion,  whose  realm  is  the  land  of  the  sea; 
The  calm  fields  of  Eden,  that  shadowless  shine, 
Their  beauties  are  lowly,  green  island,  to  thine. 

Come,  heroes,  come  hither  from  near  and  from  far, 
Who  love  the  red  wine-cup,  and  dread  not  red  war, 
Who  shrink  not  from  danger  if  bliss  be  in  view; 
King  Krion's  full  banquet  is  waiting  for  you. 

The  barks  of  King  Krion  are  brave  to  behold ; 
King  Krion's  bright  armor  is  gleaming  with  gold; 
And  he  with  King  Krion  who  roams  o'er  the  tide 
Shall   choose    from    the   vanquished   his   portion   and 
bride. 


1 88  SONG    OF  DANCERS. 

The  lifeless — the  victor — borne  back  from  the  fray, 
Bright  eyes  shall  weep  over,  ripe  lips  shall  repay ; 
And  shame  to  the  cold  heart  whose  pulse  will  not 

move, 
While  one  throb  remains,  to  the  rapture  of  love ! 

What  galley  unchallenged  shall  pass  by  the  shore  ? 
What  sail  unmolested  the  billows  ride  o'er? 
The  fruits  of  the  far  lands,  the  wealth  of  the  sea, 
Rejoice  to  pay  tribute,  green  island,  to  thee. 

Bring  roses,  bring  lilies,  bring  laurels,  to  shed 
Sweet  scents  for  our  monarch,  fresh  leaves  for  his  bed, 
The  dauntless, — the  tender, — our  buckler  and  sword, — 
The  Prince  of  young  bosoms, — King  Krion,  our  lord. 

Green  island !  the  fire  in  thy  bosom  that  glows 
But  tints  thy  gold  orange,  but  gleams  on  thy  rose ; 
So  bright  deeds  alone  tell  how  lava-like  roll, 
Resistless,  King  Krion,  the  waves  of  thy  soul. 

Bright  Mithra,  each  morn  when  thy  welcome  we  raise, 
Each  eve  when  we  hymn  to  thee  paeans  of  praise, 
Thy  beams  on  the  green  sea  shall  linger  to  bear 
Along  the  bright  waters  this  promise  and  prayer : 

Rejoice  with  thy  splendor  the  many-hued  isles, 
The  realm  of  King  Krion  delight  with  thy  smiles, 
And  long  shall  thy  vestals  in  temple  and  grove 
Devote  their  green  island  to  glory  and  love. 


SHIPS  AT  SEA.  189 


SHIPS    AT    SEA. 

GRAND  is  the  lofty  mountain 

In  his  wintry  garments  drest, 
And  fair  the  sparkling  fountain 

With  the  sunlight  on  its  breast ; 
Bright  are  the  green  fields  blooming 

In  the  spring-time,  fresh  and  fair, 
And  sweet  the  flowers  perfuming 

The  shining  summer  air ; 
But  ne'er  a  scene  so  cheering 

Can  nature  bring  to  me 
As  the  wheeling  and  careering 

Of  gallant  ships  at  sea. 

When  the  twilight  stars  are  beaming 

On  the  white  and  frosty  foam, 
And  the  sailor-boy  lies  dreaming 

Of  his  half-forgotten  home, — 
When  the  joyful  breeze  up-springing 

Sweeps  o'er  the  ridgy  deep, 
And  the  booming  waves  are  singing 

The  mariner  to  sleep, — 
Then  within  my  bosom  dwelling 

Beats  a  spirit  wild  and  free, 
As  I  mark  the  canvas  swelling 

On  the  gallant  ships  at  sea. 


T9o  TO  INEZ. 

When  the  straining  ship  goes  reeling 

Amid  the  waters'  roar, 
And  the  heart  grows  wild  with  feeling 

Unknown  upon  the  shore, — 
Oh,  then,  to  be  a  seaman, 

Who  would  not  danger  brave  ? 
For  earth  has  not  a  freeman 

Like  the  rover  of  the  wave, 
And  the  heart  has  no  emotion 

So  full  of  bounding  glee 
As  the  heart  that  loves  the  ocean 

And  the  gallant  ships  at  sea. 


TO    INEZ. 

OH,  meet  me,  sweet,  my  love,  this  eve, 
Between  the  night  and  the  day; 

Not  in  the  night, — not  in  the  light, — 
But  in  the  twilight  gray ; 

For  I  have  a  secret  something,  dear, 
In  loving  words  to  say. 

And  brightest  shine  your  eyes  divine 
Between  the  night  and  the  day, — 

Bright  in  the  light,  and  bright  by  night, 
And  brighter  in  the  twilight  gray; 

And  I  know  they'll  glow  with  gladness,  love, 
At  the  words  I  have  to  say. 


TO   INEZ.  I9I 

And  meet  me,  dear,  where  first  we  met, 

Between  the  night  and  the  day  ; 
Not  in  the  light, — not  in  the  night, — 

But  in  the  twilight  gray, 
Among  the  dim  Presidio  woods, 

Beside  the  silver  bay. 

The  ripplets  kissed  each  other's  cheeks, 

And  whispered  on  the  shore 
Low  words  of  love  as  they  heard  the  words 

The  seaward  breezes  bore ; 
And  I  wish  them  to  hear  the  final  vow, — 

That  we  shall  part  no  more. 

So  meet  me,  sweet,  my  love,  this  eve, 

Between  the  night  and  the  day ; 
Not  in  the  night, — not  in  the  light, — 

But  in  the  twilight  gray, 
Among  the  dim  Presidio  woods, 

Beside  the  silver  bay. 


192  SCOTCH  SONG. 


SCOTCH    SONG. 

GLANCING    IN    THE    GLOAMING. 

WHEN  simmer  times  were  blythe  an'  sweet, 

An'  youth  wi'  flowers  had  crowned  me, 
And  rosy  hours  wi'  fairy  feet 

Were  gaily  dancing  round  me, 
Ae  bonny  night  in  gentle  June 

Abroad  I  chanced  to  wander, 
Where  breeze  and  leaf  kept  time  and  tune 

Like  sighs  when  hearts  grow  fonder ; 
Through  deepening  shades  an'  forests  green, 

In  musing  mood  while  roaming, 
I  got  a  blink  o'  twa  bright  een 

A  glancing  in  the  gloaming. 

The  sparkling  stream  wi'  merry  sang 

Went  saftly  on  beside  me, 
The  blinking  stars  peeped  doon  amang 

Green  leaves  that  stooped  to  hide  me, 
The  pale  sweet  moon  wi'  angel  face 

Beyand  the  hills  was  starting. 
And  lingered  still  the  crimson  trace 

.  Where  day  was  fast  departing; 
But  moon  nor  star  nor  even's  sheen, 

Nor  yet  the  brook's  bright  foaming, 
Was  half  sae  clear  as  those  blue  een 

A  glancing  in  the  gloaming. 


FRAGMENT. 

Oh,  mony  a  twilight  sky  since  then 

Has  beamed  in  mildness  on  me, 
And  mony  a  sparkling  eye,  I  ken, 

Still  kindly  looks  upon  me  ; 
But  ne'er  to  me  sae  blest  a  night 

Has  come  wi'  May's  returning, 
And -ne'er  have  I  sae  fond  a  light 

Seen  since  in  rapture  burning ; 
And  oh,  the  bard  shall  ne'er,  I  ween. 

Forget,  through  a'  his  roaming, 
The  sparkle  of  those  bright-blue  een 

A  glancing  in  the  gloaming. 


FRAGMENT. 

THE    DIFFERENT    EFFECTS    OF    NATURAL    SCENERY    ON 
THE   JUST    AND    ON    THE    CORRUPT    MIND. 

WHAT  ceaseless  joys  the  just  and  pious  mind 
In  Nature's  ever-changing  scenes  can  find  ! 
The  balmy  air  of  fragrance-breathing  Spring, 
The  rainbow-gleam  of  Summer's  golden  wing, 
The  mellowing  tints  that  mark  the  Autumn  day, 
And  Winter's  murky  mantle,  cold  and  gray, 
Each  endless  thoughts  of  happiness  impart, 
And  all  combine  to  cheer  the  peaceful  heart. 
With  warm  delight  the  faithful  Christian  sees 
Returning  April  clothe  the  naked  trees  \ 
With  joy  beholds  the  vernal  sun  restore 
The  flowers  he  loved  and  lost  a  year  before ; 
i  17 


I94  FRAGMENT. 

And  grateful  swells  when  Autumn's  liberal  hand 
Rains  ripened  fruits  upon  the  hungry  land ; 
E'en  hoary  Winter  prodigal  displays 
Ten  thousand  varied  wonders  to  his  gaze. 
No  scene  so  dark  in  all  this  world  below 
But  o'er  its  gloom  the  cheerful  heart  can  throw 
Some  beams  of  light,  that  give,  like  sunshine,  birth 
To  flowers  and  foliage  on  the  coldest  earth  ; 
No  scene  so  dark  but  God  the  power  has  given 
To  clothe  its  midnight  face  in  tints  of  heaven. 
As  when  the  eye  through  the  prismatic  glass 
Sees  common  things  before  its  vision  pass, 
The  darkest  clouds  in  heavenly  colors  shine, 
And  e'en  corruption  wears  a  robe  divine, 
So  lives  the  Christian,  seeing  all  things  fair, 
Himself  supplying  half  the  charms  they  wear ; 
So  lives  the  Christian,  and,  his  exile  past, 
He  sinks  in  glory  to  his  grave  at  last. 

But,  oh,  fair  Nature  never  wears  a  smile 
To  cheer  that  man  by  sin  corrupt  and  vile  ! 
No  light  within  its  genial  influence  sheds 
On  the  lone  path  that  heedlessly  he  treads; 
No  music  hears  he  in  the  whispering  breeze, 
Loves  not  the  green  that  decks  the  waving  trees, 
Discerns  no  beauty  in  the  leaf-crowned  bowers, 
Heeds  not  the  incense  of  the  blushing  flowers, 
And  reckless  treads,  unmoved,  the  fragrant  sod, 
At  war  with  Nature,  as  with  Nature's  God. 
Oh,  dark  his  fate  who  thus  excludes  the  light 
And  walks  amid  a  self-created  night  ! 


LINES    TO  AN  ABSENT  HUSBAND. 


195 


LINES    TO    AN    ABSENT    HUSBAND. 

BRIGHT  eyes  are  glancing  round  me  now, 

And  joy  the  youthful  heart  beguiles, 
And  gladness  shines  oh  every  brow, 

And  wreathed  is  every  lip  with  smiles ; 
But,  ah,  mine  eye  a  fairer  day 

Beyond  the  azure  wave  can  see, 
And  Fancy  wings  her  breezy  way, 

My  own,  my  only  love,  to  thee. 

Where  the  white  surge  of  tropic  seas 

On  coral  shores  in  gladness  rings, 
And  where  the  balmy  southern  breeze 

Through  clouds  of  bending  canvas  sings, 
I  see  thee  still  \  the  sparkling  brine 

Is  breaking  round  thy  bark  in  foam ; 
But  still  my  heart  keeps  time  with  thine, 

And  longs  to  share  thy  ocean  home. 

Who  says  the  heart  that  once  has  loved 

Can  from  its  idol  e'er  depart? 
Oh,  surely  such  can  ne'er  have  proved 

The  depths  of  woman's  trusting  heart, 
Can  ne'er  have  worn  the  viewless  chain 

That  binds  the  heart  with  magic  thrall, 
Or  proved  through  years  of  joy  and  pain 

How  Love  would  still  be  lord  of  all. 


196          LINES   TO  AN  ABSENT  HUSBAND. 

Star  of  my  destiny,  I  turn 

To  thee  when  golden  skies  grow  pale ; 
From  thee,  when  midnight  tapers  burn, 

My  soul  draws  back  the  mystic  veil ; 
In  dreams,  in  dreams,  at  morn  or  night, 

Whene'er  sweet  slumber  sets  me  free, 
Still  do  I  wing  my  fairy  flight,    . 

Lord  of  my  spirit's  realms,  to  thee. 

Oh,  when  shall  I  again  behold, 

With  waking  eyes,  that  manly  face? — 
Oh,  when  shall  these  fond  arms  enfold 

My  wanderer  in  a  warm  embrace? 
How  like  a  mateless  bird  I  pine, 

Though  joy  be  round  me,  lost  and  lone, 
For,  oh,  no  voice  can  soothe  like  thine, 

My  own,  my  loved,  my  absent  one  ! 


THE    WINDS   OF  SPRING. 


197 


THE    WINDS    OF    SPRING. 


THEY  come,  they  come,  from  their  southern  home, 

Where  the  sun  shines  ever  fair, 
On  islands  that  rise  from  the  ocean's  foam 

In  beauty  strange  and  rare  ; 
They  come,  and  their  low  sweet  songs  I  hear 

Through  the  bending  branches  ring, 
For  the  minstrels  who  sing  for  the  youthful  year 

Are  the  balmy  winds  of  spring. 


Gone  are  the  shades  of  the  winter  night, 

And  the  wintry  storms  have  gone, 
As,  laden  with  song  and  life  and  light, 

The  winds  of  spring  come  on  ; 
And  round  the  old  arbor,  with  tiny  arms, 

The  clustering  wild-flowers  cling, 
And  the  blushing  rose  dons  her  fairest  charms 

As  she  bends  to  the  winds  of  spring. 

in. 

The  skies  look  glad,  and  the  fields  rejoice 

With  a  noiseless  minstrelsy, 
And  the  streamlet  laughs  with  a  merry  voice 

As  it  hastens  away  to  the  sea ; 

17* 


198  EVERMORE. 

And  the  exiled  bird  of  some  far-off  shore, 
As  she  plumes  her  drooping  wing, 

Sings  gladly  her  native  strains  once  more 
To  welcome  the  winds  of  spring. 


On,  on  they  go  !  with  their  airy  sweep, 

Over  mountains  and  valleys,  away, 
Fanning  the  shore  of  the  limitless  deep, 

And  kissing  the  bounding  spray ; 
And  lands  of  beauty  that  none  may  see, 

And  many  a  strange,  bright  thing, 
Shall  smile  a  glad  welcome  cheerfully 

To  the  balmy  winds  of  spring. 


EVERMORE. 


OH  for  youth  and  flowery  Spring, 
That  with  mirth  and  music  ring, 
Ere  the  blooming  leaves  have  vanished,- 
Taken  wing ! 

II. 

How  the  leaves  are  growing  gray ! 
How  the  blossoms  fade  away  ! 
And  the  winds  that  sung  are  sighing, — 
Well-a-day. 


EVERMORE. 


III. 


199 


Dimples  into  wrinkles  grow, 
Raven  tresses  turn  to  snow ; 
Drear,  alas  !  is  pain  and  sorrow, — 
Full  of  woe. 

IV. 

Dreary  is  the  changing  time 
When  the  spirit's  past  its  prime, — 
Slowly,  mournfully  is  failing, 
Like  a  chime. 

v. 

Drifting  on  the  fateful  tide, 
On  the  torrent  wild  and  wide, 
To  that  bourn  where  weary  pilgrims 
All  abide. 


Hark  unto  the  surging  roar, 
From  the  fast -approaching  shore, 
Of  the  long,  black  billows  beating 
Evermore ! 

VII. 

Oh  for  blossoms  newly  sprung, 
For  the  harp  forever  strung  ! 
Oh  to  be  unchanging  never, — 
Ever  young  ! 


200  SONG. 


SONG. 

COME  unto  my  bosom,  love, 

Like  a  white  and  shining  dream, - 
When  the  night  is  in  the  grove, 

And  our  planet  on  the  stream. 
In  the  gloom,  blossoms  bloom, 

And  their  odors  are  for  thee, 
Dearest,  kindest, 

Beneath  the  laurel-tree. 

I  will  kiss  thy  snow-white  hands, 

I  will  kiss  thy  brow  so  fair, 
I  will  loose  the  braided  bands 

Of  thy  shining,  silken  hair; 
In  the  skies  of  thine  eyes 

Sunny  visions  I  shall  see, 
Dearest,  kindest, 

Beneath  the  laurel-tree. 

Hasten,  for  the  flowers  may  close, 

And  our  planet  will  grow  pale, 
And  our  love  be  like  the  rose, — 

Fragrant,  beautiful,  and  frail. 
Life  is  fleet,  youth  is  sweet; 

Let  the  honeyed  moments  flee, 
Dearest,  kindest, 

Beneath  the  laurel  tree. 


MAY- DAY.  201 


MAY-DAY. 

WRITTEN    AT   LAUREL   HILL,  PHILADELPHIA. 


"  The  Druids'  groves  are  gone." 
Don 


LIKE  children  sporting  in  unbridled  glee, 
The  soft  spring  breezes  are  about  to-day, 
And  blooming  flowers,  and  foliage-mantled  tree, 
Smile  gladly  in  thy  presence,  gentle  May. 
Here,  too,  let  me  my  willing  homage  pay 
To  thee,  sweet  queen  of  beauty  and  of  song, — 
Here,  in  this  lonely  graveyard,  far  away 
From  all  the  sad  distractions  that  belong 
To  the  fierce  world  of  strife,  the  city's  restless  throng. 

n. 

Ye  flowers  that  here  from  death  your  life  receive, 
Shed  balmier  air  around  me  while  I  dream, 
That,  breathing  your  sweet  incense,  I  may  weave 
A  sweeter  strain,  the  musty  past  my  theme. 
Soft  comes  the  music  of  yon  murmuring  stream 
Through  the  warm,  tremulous,  sun-purpled  air, 
And  brightly  falls  the  morning's  rosiest  beam 
Where  on  yon  river,  like  a  maiden  fair, 
She  bends,  and  smiles  to  see  herself  reflected  there. 

l*  '$*£*- 

o'/  Ttfs 


202  MA  Y-DA  Y. 

III. 

There  was  a  time,  sweet  May,  when  early  dawn 
Called  forth  the  villagers,  a  joyful  train, 
To  sport  in  gladness  on  the  dewy  lawn, 
And  hail  rejoicing  thy  return  again ; 
That  time  has  gone,  but  still  to  thee  remain 
The  flowers  that  round  thy  footsteps  ever  cling, 
And  still  the  wild-bird  pipes  his  merry  strain 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  thy  golden  wing ; — 
Thy  worshipers  are  these,  and  these  thy  praises  sing. 

IV. 

Still  as  through  years  Improvement  onward  treads, 
The  sports  of  other  days  around  him  die, 
As  the  sweet  spells  that  moonlight  o'er  us  sheds 
Grow  pale  and  vanish  in  the  morning  sky. 
And  here  I  mourn,  sweet  May,  with  moistened  eye, 
The  absence  of  those  revels,  now  no  more, 
When  mirth  the  moments  sped  so  fleetly  by, 
When  hearts  grew  lukewarm  never,  and  the  store 
Of  joy  grew  larger  still,  and  pleasure's  cup  ran  o'er. 

v. 

Back,  O  my  spirit,  to  the  olden  times, 
When  in  the  merry  greenwood's  twilight  shade 
The  love-lorn  poet  wove  his  quaint  old  rhymes 
In  honor  of  some  gentle  rustic  maid  ! 
Methinks  I  see,  in  fairy  green  arrayed, 
A  playful  band  go  laughingly  along, — 
I  see  them  winding  through  the  leafy  glade, 
I  hear  the  gushing  gladness  of  their  song, 
Now  soft  and  sadly  low,  now  rising  bold  and  strong. 


MA  Y-DA  V. 


203 


VI. 

I  see  the  May-pole  rising  in  the  air, 
Crowned  with  fresh  flowers  and  wavy  boughs  of  green ; 
I  mark  the  glance  of  eyes  and  faces  fair, 
All  lightly  laughing  in  the  morning's  sheen; 
There  is  no  sad  anxiety,  I  ween, 
Within  their  swelling  bosoms;  no  alloy 
Corrupts  the  gold  of  their  bright  thoughts  unseen; 
But  all  is  light,  and  loveliness,  and  joy, — 
E'en  care  has  lost  the  heart,  the  pleasure  to  destroy. 


Still,  as  the  hours  roll  on,  the  mazy  dance 
Is  circling  round  that  consecrated  spot, 
And  many  a  sigh,  and  many  a  burning  glance, 
Is  heard,  and  seen,  not  soon  to  be  forgot 
By  hearts  where  love  a  willing  home  has  sought. 
But,  oh  !  the  forms  grow  faint ;  my  throbbing  heart, 
How  frail  thy  dream,  by  fruitful  fancy  wrought ! 
The  airy  visions  vanish  and  depart 
Into  these  cold  white  stones,   that,  ghost-like,  round 
me  start. 

VIII. 

So  ends  all  human  pleasure  in  the  grave, 
So  sinks  all  mortal  beauty  to  the  tomb ; 
Time  rolls  along,  and  each  successive  wave 
But  wraps  the  past  in  darker,  heavier  gloom  ; 
Yet  through  that  ocean,  like  a  sweet  perfume 
Of  roses  long  since  withered,  or  the  breath 
Of  these  sweet  blossoms  that  around  me  bloom, 
These  lights  from  darkness,  messengers  of  death, 
The   memory  comes  of  things   that    long    have  slept 
beneath. 


204  THE  SQUATTER. 

IX. 

'Tis  a  sad  strain,  sweet  May,  that  here  I  sing, 
And  mirthful,  sure,  should  be  thy  natal  song; 
But  while  for  joy  my  feeble  harp  I  string, 
With  woeful  hand  I  sweep  the  chords  along. 
Then,  oh,  sweet  May,  I  will  not  do  thee  wrong 
By  moaning  aught  of  sadness  in  thine  ear, 
But  leave  thy  welcome  to  thy  flowers,  among 
The  graves  of  thy  lost  worshipers,  that  here 
Sleep  calmly  'neath  th>  smile,  fair  mistress  of  the  year. 


THE    SQUATTER. 

IT  was  a  morn  in  June.     The  golden  clouds, 
From  the  bright  eastern  horizon,  far  up 
The  clear  blue  sky,  were  ranged  in  order  bright, 
Like  heralds  placed  to  marshal  in  the  sun. 
The  rosy  air  was  sweet  with  fresh  perfumes 
That  young  flowers  breathe  forth.  The  wild-bird  sprung 
From  the  leaf-garnished  bough,  where,  all  night  long, 
Resting  her  weary  wings,  in  peace  she  sat, 
Rocked  into  slumber  by  the  gentle  wind, 
And,  dashing  from  her  glossy  wings  the  dew, 
Shot  out  from  shades  where  twilight  lingered  yet, 
Into  the  blessed  sunlight. 

Far  and  near 

The  green  old  forest  rung  with  bursts  of  song, 
That  through  its  dim  and  leafy  aisles 


THE    SQUATTER.  205 

Melodious  rolled  on, — the  morning  hymn 
With  which  glad  Earth  salutes  her  lord,  the  Sun. 

Beneath  a  mighty  oak,  whose  leaf-crowned  head 
Towered  like  a  monarch's  in  its  regal  pride, 
A  solitary  hunter  stood,  his  hands 
Clasped  on  his  trusty  rifle ;  and  his  head, 
Uncovered  and  bent  down,  was  white  with  years ; 
And  much  he  seemed  like  one  whom  toil  and  time 
Together  had  with  leaden  hands  oppressed. 

But  there  was  more  within  that  flashing  eye, 
More  in  the  close-drawn  lips  and  massive  chest, 
Heaving  and  swelling  like  a  mountain-side 
Rent  by  internal  fire,  than  ever  comes 
With  weariness  of  years.     And  well  there  might; 
For  full  before  him,  where  he  silent  stood, 
Right  in  the  centre  of  that  fair  green  spot. 
The  smouldering  ruins  of  a  hamlet  lay, — 
His  home  of  yesterday. 

O  ye  on  whom 

Misfortune  seldom  unexpected  comes, 
Who  never  feel  the  sudden  stroke  of  woe 
That  blasts  the  fairest  hopes  in  one  short  hour, 
Ye  cannot  know  how  such  things  rive  the  heart, 
As  doth  the  thunderbolt  the  mountain  pine, 
And,  drinking  up  the  sap  that  gave  it  life, 
Leaves  it  a  barren  and  a  leafless  trunk, 
To  bloom  no  more  forever.     Such  was  his. 

'Tis  an  old  tale,  and  often  told.     From  far 
Beyond  the  dark-blue  waters,  in  his  youth, 
18 


206  THE  SQUATTER. 

The  hunter  came,  and  with  him  one  whose  heart 

Was  linked  to  his  by  every  holy  tie. 

Together  in  the  wilderness  they  sought 

A  refuge  from  oppression  and  disdain, 

And  found,  beyond  the  reach  of  mortal  sight, 

Another  home,  far  from  their  childhood's  home. 

Years  rolled  along,  and  happiness,  the  flower 
That  owns  no  parent  soil,  but  blooms  where'er 
One  holy  heart  keeps  hallowed  the  spot 
Where  its  bright  leaves  are  spreading,  blossomed  there. 
Years  rolled  along,  and  other  plants  sprung  up 
Beneath  the  shadows  of  the  parent  trees. 

But  yesterday  he  left  a  goodly  band 
Behind  him,  and  the  cloudless  sun  went  down 
On  happy  hearts,  and  faces  glad  with  smiles. 
The  midnight  came,  and  what  a  change  was  there  ! — 
Bright  hatchets  flashing  in  the  torches'  gleam, 
The  glare  of  burning  rafters,  and  the  cry 
Of  agony,  the  shriek,  the  stifled  groan, 
All  mingled  with  the  wild  and  vengeful  yell 
Of  the  fierce  Indian.     Lovely  morning  came, 
And  all  remained  to  greet  a  father's  eye 
Was  that  red  grave  that  covered  all  he  loved. 

Sons  of  the  forest,  children  of  the  wild, 
Homeless  and  landless  wanderers  though  you  be, 
Well  has  your  debt  of  vengeance  been  repaid  ! 
For  many  an  aching  heart  left  seared  and  void, 
The  midnight  ravage,  and  the  torturing  fire, 
And  red  brand  hissing  on  the  warm  hearthstone, 
Have  followed  in  your  path. 


THE   SQUATTER.  207 

"But  yesterday!" 

The  father  murmured,  and  the  long-pent  groans 
Burst  from  his  heart  in  anguish,  as  the  thought 
Of  yesterday,  its  joys  and  pleasures,  came 
Back  on  his  memory.     Even  while  he  spake, 
Up  through  the  forest-aisles  a  flood  of  light, 
Rich,  rosy,  liquid  light,  came  rolling  on, 
The  first  beams  of  the  morning.     Circling  round 
His  hoary  head,  they  seemed  like  messengers 
Of  comfort  sent  from  heaven  to  cheer  his  heart, 
So  heavy  in  its  woe.     Alas  !   'tis  vain  ! 
No  more  to  him  shall  day  returning  bring 
One  happy  thought  to  ease  his  lone  distress, 
Nor  evening  with  its  dewy  fingers  bathe 
And  cool  the  torture  of  his  burning  brow. 

Slowly  he  turned,  and  with  his  rifle-point 
Stirred  up  the  embers,  with  a  wistful  look, 
As  seeking  some  lost  treasure,  muttered,  "  Gone  !" 
And  sadly  shook  his  head,  and  turned  away, 
An  old,  gray-haired,  and  broken-hearted  man. 


208     AN  ADDRESS   TO  DEPARTING   WINTER. 


AN   ADDRESS   TO    DEPARTING 
WINTER. 

OLD  Winter,  thou  art  fading  fast ; 
Thy  icy  reign  is  o'er  at  last ; 
Thou  hoary  monarch,  ne'er  again 

Thy  frosty  visage  may  I  see ; 
So,  ere  thy  northern  flight  be  ta'en, 

I'll  say  a  parting  word  to  thee : 
Then  lend  an  ear,  thou  shadow  gray, 
And  list  to  that  which  I  shall  say. 

When  first,  with  frozen  wings  outspread, 
And  snow-clouds  round  thy  hoary  head, 
Thou  on  the  northern  blast  didst  come, 
To  make  these  lands  awhile  thy  home, 
One  morning,  I  remember  well, 

From  my  soft  couch  in  haste  I  sprung ; 
For  all  night  long  the  fancied  swell 

Of  music  through  my  ears  had  rung, 
And  dreams  of  leaves,  and  fruits,  and  flowers, 
And  cool  retreats,  and  shady  bowers, 
Had  clothed  with  light  my  slumbering  hours. 
And  so  in  haste  I  rose  to  see 

If  yet,  upon  some  sunny  spot, 
Some  lingering  blossoms  there  might  be, 
That  I  could  gather  carefully 

And  keep  as  a  forget-me-not 
The  dying  year  had  left  to  me. 


AN  ADDRESS   TO  DEPARTING   WINTER.      209 

Alas !  while  brightly  round  my  bed 

Came  scenes  of  summer  soft  and  warm, 
Thy  frozen  foot,  with  ruthless  tread, 

Had  pressed  to  earth  each  fragile  form, 
And  all  that  felt  thy  blasting  breath, 
Leaf,  plant,  and  flower,  lay  cold  in  death. 
With  tears  I  mourned  their  faded  glory, 

And  roundly  cursed  thy  fatal  blast, 
And  now,  in  faith,  I'm  truly  sorry 

That  thou  art  past ! 

For  thou  hast  been  a  jovial  fellow, 

Despite  thy  freezing,  monkish  eye ; 
And  smiles  grew  bright,  and  wine  grew  mellow, 

While  darker  grew  thy  frowning  sky ; 
And  while  o'erhead  with  furious  ire 

Thy  howling  storms  would  fiercer  blow, 
Cheered  by  their  soul-inspiring  fire, 

We  mortals  merrier  grew  below. 
But,  while  thy  pleasures  I  portray, 
I  humbly  pray  thee,  let  me  say, 
Thy  daylight,  Winter,  cold  and  rough, 
Was  just  a  cheerless  thing  enough  ; 
But  when  the  dim  and  ray  less  sun 
His  short  and  cloudless  course  had  run, 
Then  sounds  of  joy  and  revelry 
Burst  gladly  forth,  with  rapture's  glee, 
And  Mirth  gave  signal  to  begin 
His  revel  as  the  night  set  in. 
Then  to  the  bright  and  gilded  hall 
Thronged  the  gay  crowd  at.  pleasure's  call ; 
And  beauty's  form  was  fair  to  see, 
And,  oh,  how  sweet  the  minstrelsy 
1 8* 


210     AN  ADDRESS   TO  DEPARTING   WINTER. 

That  rolled  in  mellow  tones  along, 

Mingled  with  strains  of  sweetest  song ! 

Then,  too,  when  moon  and  stars  were  bright, 

Beneath  their  pure  and  holy  light 

The  bounding  steeds  in  bright  array, 

Some  harnessed  to  the  painted  sleigh, 

And,  reckless  of  the  biting  air, 

Bade  for  a  while  farewell  to  care, 

And  to  the  merry  sleigh-bells'  sound 

Like  shadows  swept  the  snowy  ground ; 

The  friends  around  the  fireside  met, 

In  sweet  communion  to  forget 

Life's  toils  and  cares,  that  wildly  roll, 

Like  billows,  round  the  fainting  soul. 

And  this,  of  all  thy  joys,  I  own 

Is  nearest,  dearest  to  my  heart, 
And  would  for  all  the  rest  atone, 

Though  they  forever  should  depart. 

But,  ah  !  these  scenes  have  passed  away ; 

They  fled  before  the  lengthening  day. 

Even  now  I  see  thee  fainter  grow, 

And  shadowy  seem  thy  limbs  of  snow : 

Thy  frame,  old  graybeard,  cannot  bear 

The  softness  of  the  April  air. 

Sweet  sounds  come  stealing  on  my  ear, 

Glad  voices  of  the  new-born  year, — 

The  fluttering  of  the  wild-bird's  wing, 

The  first  bold  pioneer  of  spring, 

A  rustling  in  the  lofty  pines, 

A  whispering  voice  among  th^  vines. 

Hark  to  that  low  and  breezy  sigh, 

Young  Spring's  first  breathings  murmuring  by  ! 


NIGHT.  211 

The  tall  trees  lift  their  heads  with  joy 

To  feel  its  gentle  swell ; 
And  yonder  in  the  northern  skies 
The  glances  of  her  opening  eyes 
Are  blended  in  a  thousand  dyes. 

Old  Winter,  fare  thee  well. 


NIGHT  — A   VISION. 

i. 

NIGHT  on  the  hills  and  valleys.     Come  with  me : 
I  know  a  spot  within  yon  silent  glade 
Where  'twill  be  pleasant  for  to  sit,  and  see 
The  moonlight  struggling  through  the  tangled  shade 
That  the  gnarled  boughs  and  -young  green  leaves 

have  made. 

Lo  !  how  the  gem-like  dew-drops  sparkle  fair  ! 
The  wild-flowers  bend  their  heads,  as  if  they  prayed, 
And  their  warm  breathings  on  the. evening  air 
A  holy  incense  seem,  a  fragrance  sweet  and  rare. 

ii. 

With  upraised  finger,  guarding  earth's  repose, 
Silence  floats  shadowy  o'er  the  moon's  pale  beam; 
From  her  hushed  lips  no  breathing  murmur  flows, 
No  eyelids  veil  that  fixed  eye's  changeless  gleam. 
Not  man  alone,  but  Nature  sleeps;  the  stream 
Hath  lost  her  merry  voice,  the  winds  their  moan, 
And  Night,  the  dark-eyed  Night,  herself  a  dream, 
Slumbers  and  dreams  upon  her  starry  throne, 
While  brighter  gleam  the  suns  that  gem  her  milky  zone, 


212  NIGHT. 

III. 

Here,  gazing  on  this  mild  and  quiet  scene, 
Reminds  me  of  a  night  one  balmy  June. 
I  had  gone  forth,  as  now,  beneath  the  sheen 
Of  the  bright  stars  and  silver-seeming  moon ; 
But,  oh  !  my  heart  was  sadly  out  of  tune, 
For  Sorrow's  hand  had  rudely  brushed  the  strings, 
And  Care  had  gathered  o'er  me  all  too  soon, 
Darkening  my  bright  hopes  with  her  sable  wings, 
And  covering  as  with  night  all  fair  and  lovely  things. 


I  stood  within  the  churchyard  still  and  lone ; 
Beneath  me  lay  the  past,  in  shroud  and  pall ; 
The  present — moonlight  pale,  and  cold  white  stone, 
And  tall  trees  standing  by  the  lofty  wall ; 
And  while  I  mused,  strar.ge  shadows  seemed  to  fall 
Upon  my  spirit ;  in  my  ears  did  ring 
A  murmuring  music,  like  the  breezy  call 
That  charms  the  wild-bird  to  the  woods  in  spring, 
When  to  the  bending  grass  the  new-born  flowerets  cling. 


I  did  not  dream,  but  o'er  my  spirit  came 
A  cloud-like  mystery,  a  charm,  a  sleep ; 
Before  mine  eyes  there  played  a  circling  flame, 
Casting  faint  radiance  on  a  boundless  deep, 
That  ever  with  a  wild  and  tameless  sweep 
Rocked  to  and  fro,  and  on  its  bosom  bore 
Things  shapeless  and  unformed,  a  mingled  heap 
Of  ghastly  shadows,  such  as  once  of  yore, 
Ere  light  and  time  were  born,  the  face  of  chaos  wore. 


NIGHT.  213 

VI. 

Wrapt  in  his  misty  mantle,  faint  and  dim, 
I  saw  the  Genius  of  the  Future  stand, 
Around  him  crouching  forms,  like  spectres  grim, 
And  a  book  open  in  his  dusky  hand ; 
And  ever  when  he  waved  what  seemed  a  wand, 
Wild  forms  sprung  forth  on  whirring  wings  away, 
As  bearing  in  hot  haste  some  stern  command, 
That  brooked  not  further  lingering  nor  delay; 
And,  while  I  wondering  gazed,  I  heard  a  voice  to  say, — 


"Look  well !  thy  future  is  before  thee  now  !" 
The  words  fell  harshly  on  my  startled  ear, — 
When  sudden  on  that  heaving  deep  a  glow 
Of  pearly  light  shone  beautiful  and  clear; 
I  saw  a  broad  and  varied  scene  appear, 
Where  lately  dim  confusion  slept  in  gloom, 
And  the  weird  shadowings  and  shapes  of  fear 
Had  melted  into  loveliness  and  bloom, 
As  sunny  flowers  spring  up  from  the  dark,  loathsome 
tomb. 

VIII. 

Full  many  a  land  I  saw  in  beauty  shine, 
That  then  was  unfamiliar  to  my  eye; 
And  forms  whose  after-fate  was  linked  with  mine 
Oft  looked  upon  me  as  they  glided  by ; 
And  cloud-like  shadows,  too,  at  times  would  fly, 
Obscuring,  as  they  went,  the  prospect  rare, 
Much  like  the  changes  of  an  April  sky, 
Sunshine  and  shade,  bright  joy  and  gloomy  care, 
Each  following  in  its  turn ;  and  thou,  thou  too,  wert 
there. 


214  A   FRAGMENT. 

IX. 

I  saw  thee,  as  I  saw  thee  once  again, 
Beauteous  and  bright,  within  a  festive  hall, 
And  jewels  bright  were  sparkling  round  thee  then, 
Thyself  the  fairest  jewel  of  them  all ! 
Oh,  lightly  heedless  of  what  fate  might  fall, 
My  vision  o'er,  I  left  that  churchyard  wide, 
Well  knowing  that  at  kind  affection's  call 
Thou,  dearest,  wouldst  be  ever  at  my  side, 
My  guardian  angel  fair,  my  own,  my  destined  bride. 


A    FRAGMENT. 

AND  where  yon  bank 

Uprises  from  the  river-side, 
'Tis  said  a  chief  of  lofty  rank, 

In  battling  for  his  country,  died. 
One  was  he  of  that  band  who  reigned, 

The  monarchs  of  this  land,  before 
The  pale-faced  stranger's  hand  had  stained 

The  green  upon  their  hills  with  gore; 
One  was  he  of  that  band,  and  long 
Unmoved  he  bore  his  country's  wrong: 
He  saw,  with  sad  and  sinking  heart, 
The  warriors  of  his  youth  depart, 
He  saw  his  forest  lands  decay, 
He  saw  his  people  pass  away, 
He  saw  his  once  bright  council-fire 
Sink  into  ashes  and  expire, 
And  yet  forbore  to  raise  an  arm 
To  do  the  intruding  stranger  harm. 


A   FRAGMENT.  215 

But  when,  one  day,  his  gallant  boy, 
Of  his  old  age  the  pride  and  joy, 
Was  borne  by  kindred  hands,  and  laid, 
A  corse,  beneath  his  roof-tree's  shade, 
Such  undeserved  and  bitter  stroke 
The  fiend  within  his  bosom  woke, 
And  deep  he  vowed  his  future  life 
To  deeds  of  vengeance,  blood,  and  strife. 

But  bootless  was  his  fiery  rage : 

The  stranger's  arm  was  bold  and  strong; — 
Small  cause  has  feeble  right  to  wage 

A  warfare  'gainst  a  mighty  wrong. 
And  so  he  fell — but  nobly  fell — 
Before  the  home  he  loved  so  well ! 

They  bore  him  to  his  grave  at  night, 

That  little  mourning  band  ; 
And  sadly  flashed  the  torches'  light 
Upon  their  knives  and  hatchets  bright, 

And  on  his  gory  hand  : 
For  in  his  war-attire  he  lay, 
The  same  as  when  he  died  that  day. 
And  down  by  yonder  mighty  tree — 

'Twas  but  a  sapling  then — 
That  remnant  of  the  bold  and  free 

Laid  down  the  bravest  of  their  men ; 
Then  in  the  dark  and  gurgling  stream 
They  sadly  quenched  their  torches'  gleam, 
And  without  word  of  wail  or  moan, 
They  left  him  to  his  rest  alone. 

I  oft  have  strayed  at  twilight  there, 
And  thought  that  in  the  very  air 


2i6  DREAM-LAND. 

There  was  a  strange  and  saddening  spell, 

More  potent  far  than  words  can  tell ; 

For  many  a  time,  when  silently 

I  mused  beneath  that  mighty  tree, 

I've  almost  fancied  that  again 

I  saw  that  little  burial-train, 

And  marked  with  awe  strange  figures  glide, 

Like  ghosts,  along  the  river-side. 

The  forms  are  wanting,  but  the  sound 
Of  the  low  wind  yet  whispers  round 
At  even,  and  the  tiny  wave 

Comes  gently  murmuring  to  the  spot 
Where  calmly  in  his  forest  grave 

That  mighty  chieftain  sleeps  forgot. 


DREAM-LAND. 


I  HAVE  a  world  of  my  own, — a  world 

Where  all  is  lovely  and  bright, 
Where  the  banners  of  day  are  forever  unfurled, 

In  a  pure  but  sunless  light ; 
And  a  thousand  strange  and  beautiful  things 

In  its  groves  and  grottoes  shine, 
And  visions  are  floating  with  un tired  wings 

O'er  this  beautiful  world  of  mine. 


Yet  I  cannot  point  to  its  rosy  skies, 
Nor  show  you  its  golden  store, 


DREAM-LAND.  217 

Nor  can  I  tell  where  the  ocean  lies 

That  circles  its  fairy  shore ; 
But  I  see  it  at  night,  when  the  queenly  moon 

Keepeth  court  in  the  balmy  air, 
And  I  shut  but  my  eyes,  at  the  glare  of  noon, 

And  that  bright  land  is  there. 

ill. 

I  have  throned  thee  queen  of  that  fairy-land, 

That  sweet  little  land  of  my  own, 
And  the  children  of  dreams,  a  beautiful  band, 

I  have  gathered  around  thy  throne  ; 
And  then  when  clouds  darken  the  sunlight  of  life 

And  make  heavy  the  care-laden  hours, 
Do  I  fly  from  the  presence  of  anger  and  strife, 

To  sit  in  my  dream-land  bowers. 

IV. 

In  the  cold  waking  world  thou  art  often  away, 

And  thine  eyes  upon  others  may  turn, 
But  in  mine,  lovely  maiden,  thy  sky-kindled  ray 

Alone  in  my  spirit  shall  burn. 
And  thy  smile,  oh  !  how  sweetly,  enchantingly,  beams 

Thy  smile  on  my  bosom's  repose  ! 
Like  the  first  light  of  morn  that  lovingly  gleams 

On  the  sun-painted  breast  of  the  rose. 

v. 

I  would  not,  I  would  not  my  dream-land  resign, 
And  the  joys  its  possession  can  bring, 

For  the  pearls  and  the  jewels  that  sparkle  and  shine 
On  the  brow  of  earth's  mightiest  king. 
K  19 


2i8  TIME. 

For  thine  eye  may  grow  cold,  and  thy  smile  may  depart, 

And  my  hopes  be  unstable  as  sand, 
But  I  still  can  retain  thee  enshrined  in  my  heart, 

The  queen  of  my  own  fairy-land. 


TIME. 


TIME,  Time,  he  groweth  old  apace, 
And  his  steps  fall  faint  and  slow ; 

There  are  wrinkles  deep  in  his  ancient  face, 
And  his  eyes  are  dim,  I  trow, — 

For  he  spareth  the  grass  that  is  seared  and  gray 

And  heedlessly  moweth  the  flowers  away. 

II. 

Six  thousand  years,  six  thousand  years 
Have  passed  since  the  smiling  morn 

Beamed  first  on  that  earthly  paradise 
Where  glad  young  Time  was  born, — 

Since  the  spirits  that  floated  on  air  and  sea 

Sung  gladly  his  birthday  melody. 


He  sprung  into  life  with  a  merry  cry, 
And  the  hills  and  valleys  rung, 

And  the  morning  stars  in  the  quiet  sky 
Together  sweetly  sung ; 

But  noiselessly  he  passeth  now, 

And  stealeth  along  with  a  lowering  brow. 


MOONLIGHT.  219 

IV. 

Be  silent,  still,  for  his  end  draweth  near, 
And  watch  with  a  quivering  breath ; 

No  mortal  eye  beheld  his  birth, 
But  all  shall  behold  his  death  ! 

For  the  nations,  from  every  land  and  clime, 

Shall  gather  to  gaze  on  the  close  of  Time. 

v. 

The  moon  shall  look  down  with  a  tearful  eye, 
And  the  sun  shall  withhold  his  fire, 

And  the  hoary  earth,  all  parched  and  dry, 
Shall  flame  for  his  funeral  pyre, 

When  the  Angel  that  standeth  on  sea  and  shore 

Proclaimeth  that  "  Time  shall  be  no  more  I" 


MOONLIGHT. 


THE  moon  is  rising  in  the  east ; 

She  sends  her  beams  afar; 
Half-way  up  the  firmament 
The  radiant  messengers  are  sent, 

To  each  preceding  star, 
To  warn  those  watchers  of  the  night 

The  moon,  their  queen,  is  near, 
And  bid  them  veil  in  modest  guise 
The  beams  of  their  too  ardent  eyes 

Before  her  crystal  sphere. 


220  MOONLIGHT. 

II. 

The  moon  is  rising  in  the  east, — 

Dear  love,  let  us  go  forth  : 
The  steady  star,  true-lovers'  love, 

Shines  cloudless  in  the  north  ; 
And  where  the  western  hills  arise, 

Dark  as  the  day  declines, 
Superior  o'er  the  heavenly  host 

The  changeful  Venus  shines. 


I  know  a  lost  and  lonely  path, 

Beside  the  bounding  sea  : 
The  bending  branches  overhead 
By  night  their  showers  of  blossoms  shed  ; 
Low  airs  are  breathing  through  the  boughs, 
Holy  and  sweet  as  lovers'  vows, — 

As  our  low  vows  shall  be. 


And  where  the  opened  Golden  Gate 

Reveals  the  waste,  behold, 
Slow  growing  gloom  usurps  the  scene 

That  lately  gleamed  like  gold. 
Alas,  that  this  sweet  western  wind 

Should  be  its  latest  breath  ! 
Alas,  that  all  things  bright  become 

The  brightest  c  lose  to  death  ! 

v. 

The  moon  is  rising  in  the  east, — 
And  in  the  west  a  cloud  : — 


MOONLIGHT.  22I 

Heaven  save  us  from  such  thoughts  of  fear, 
But  to  mine  eye  its  folds  appear 

A  coffin  and  a  shroud  ! 
Lo,  how  its  sable  fringes  rise, 
Slow  trailing  up  the  azure  skies ! 

It  moves,  it  flies, — so  soon 
Must  this  dark  shadow  from  the  skies 

Blot  out  the  rising  moon? 

VI. 

O  loveliest,  let  this  omen  bear 

But  lightly  on  thy  heart; 
Close  to  my  breast, — cling  closer  still : 

We  shall  not  be  apart ! 
And  know  it  has  been  surely  said 

By  our  good  Lord  above, 
That  death  may  strike  the  world  at  will, 

But  cannot  conquer  Love. 


19* 


222  THE    CHOICE. 


THE    CHOICE. 


How  beats  the  heart  with  wild  delight 

When  on  the  soul  the  spells  arise 
That  gladly  gush  from  wine  so  bright 

And  fondly  beam  from  starry  eyes  ! 
How  melt  the  clouds  of  care  away 

When  sunned  in  beauty's  roseate  sheen  ! 
And  life  how  like  a  cloudless  day 

If  star-eyed  pleasure  reigns  the  queen  ! 
Oh,  then  no  magic  so  divine 
As  woman's  love,  and  sparkling  wine  ! 


II. 

But,  ah  !  the  power  of  light  gone  by, 

The  whirl  of  passion's  tempest  o'er, 
The  cares  that  clouded  life's  bleak  sky 

Seem  darker,  heavier  than  before; 
And  faint  and  cold  the  spirit  turns 

From  cloud-built  halls  to  earth  again, 
And  the  sad  soul  in  darkness  mourns 

Earth's  weariness  and  toil  and  pain  : 
So  pleasure's  fairy-dreams  depart, 
And  leave  behind  an  aching  heart. 


DREAMS.  223 

III. 

Then  let  me  shun  the  fading  glow 

Of  beauty's  bright  but  meteor  gleam, 
And  let  my  only  light  below 

Be  reason,  and  religion's  beam ; 
So  shall  my  path,  though  storms  sweep  by, 

On  warring  winds  by  fury  driven, 
Be  all  beneath  a  cloudless  sky, 

Till  lost  at  last  in  light  and  heaven, 
Where  shines  o'er  blissful  climes  above 
The  sunlight  of  eternal  love. 


DREAMS. 


WHEN  Slumber  round  us  folds  her  wings, 
Veiling  all  terrestrial  things, 
Golden  visions  Fancy  brings, — 

Climes  of  sunny  beams, 
Gleaming  all  in  summer  bloom, 
Fanned  by  winds  of  sweet  perfume, 
And  dazzling  spirits  break  the  gloom, 

In  the  land  of  dreams. 


II. 

Fabled  tales  of  fairy-lands, 
Oceans  bathing  coral  strands, 
Rivers  laving  golden  sands, 

Where  through  the  water  gleam 


UNIVERSITY 


224  DREAMS. 

Diamonds  brighter  than  the  star 
That  ushers  in  Aurora's  car,— 
These  are  bright,  but  brighter  far 
Is  the  land  of  dreams. 


Who  would  e'er  wish  night  away? 
Night  but  brings  a  clearer  day, 
When  we  bend  our  airy  way 

Through  these  azure  climes, 
And  in  heavenly  visions  roam 
To  seek  in  other  scenes  a  home, 
Far,  where  sorrow  ne'er  shall  come, 

In  the  land  of  dreams. 


IV. 

Oh,  leave  me  not  where  still  'twill  be 

Ever  stern  reality ! 

But  through  life,  oh,  let  me  see, 

Though  caught  in  fitful  gleams, 
Scenes  all  decked  in  Fancy's  flowers, 
Though  they  lie  in  Slumber's  bowers, 
And  let  me  pass  my  weary  hours 

In  the  land  of  dreams. 


TO   MY  MOTHER. 


225 


TO   MY    MOTHER. 

OH,  mother  dear,  the  stillness 

Of  the  night  is  all  around, 
And  the  stars  are  beaming  gently 

Upon  the  quiet  ground  ; 
And  the  moon  is  looking  on  me, 

So  lovely  and  so  mild 
That  I  think  thy  spirit,  mother, 

Must  be  dreaming  of  thy  child. 

Oh,  mother  dear,  the  moments 

Have  gathered  into  years, 
And  the  flowers  of  youth  have  fallen 

Beneath  a  flood  of  tears, 
Since  I  leaned  upon  thy  bosom  last; 

And  yet  but  yesterday 
Does  it  seem  since  you  were  young  and  glad 

And  I  a  child  at  play. 

I  dreamed  last  night,  dear  mother, 

A  dream  of  joy,  yet  pain, 
For  I  thought  those  happy  moments 

Had  come  to  me  again ; 
The  fields  were  green,  the  waters  clear, 

The  wind  was  sweet  and  low, 
And  the  sky  had  all  the  sunny  hue 

It  had  so  long  ago. 
K* 


226  TO   MY  MOTHER. 

And  thou  wert  there,  dear  mother, 

A  looking  upon  me, 
As  you  sat  upon  a  mossy  bank 

Beside  a  holly-tree  ; 
And,  oh,  you  smiled  so  pleasantly 

As  still  I  laughed  and  ran ; 
But  warm  tears  were  on  my  pillow 

When  I  woke,  a  care-worn  man. 

Oh,  mother  dear,  I  never 

Can  look  upon  the  past 
But  my  heart  comes  swelling  upward, 

And  the  tears  come  thick  and  fast. 
Oh,  surely  we  are  dreaming 

In  that  sunny  hour  of  youth, 
And  but  wake,  when  we  grow  older, 

To  sorrow  and  to  truth. 

I  hear  thy  voice,  my  mother, 

In  the  solitudes  around ; 
Like  an  echo  wakes  my  bosom 

To  that  unforgotten  sound; 
And  I  see  thine  eyes  a  gleaming 

Through  the  moonlight  meek  and  mild 
Oh,  I  know,  I  know,  dear  mother, 

Thou  art  dreaming  of  thy  child. 


FEAR   NOT.  227 


FEAR   NOT. 

I. 

FEAR  not :  what  hath  the  heart  to  fear 

From  care  or  pain  below? 
This  world,  that  frowns  around  us  here, 

Was  e'er  a  world  of  woe. 
Fear  not,  but  meekly  bear  the  smart 

Of  Heaven's  chastising  rod : 
Life's  cares  but  break  the  stubborn  heart 

And  fashion  it  for  God. 

n. 

Fear  not :  what  hath  the  heart  to  fear 

From  death's  destroying  hand? 
Why  vainly  wish  to  linger  here 

Despite  a  God's  command? 
Then  fear  not,  though  his  viewless  dart 

With  fatal  aim  be  driven, — 
For  death  but  binds  the  broken  heart 

And  gives  it  back  to  Heaven. 


228  ODE    TO  MAY. 


ODE   TO    MAY. 


DEWY  May,  flowery  May, 
Fair,  blooming,  fresh,  and  gay, 

Trips  o'er  the  green  like  an  angel  of  day. 
Blossoms  all  sweet  and  rare, 
Wreathed  in  her  sunny  hair, 

Breathe  on  the  balmy  air 

Odors  of  May. 

H. 

Hail  to  thee,  dearest  one, 

Child  of  the  rising  sun  ! 
Earth  hails  thy  coming  with  gladness  and  glee; 

Gayly  the  forests  ring, 

As  the  birds  sweetly  sing, 
Pluming  each  downy  wing, 

Welcoming  thee ! 


TO  M- 


229 


TO    M 


No  more  I  dread  my  dreams  at  dawn, 
When,  half  awake,  strange  forms  I  see ; 

No  more  I  wish  my  day-dreams  gone ; 
Because  my  dreams  are  all  of  thee. 


ii. 


Once  more,  my  soul,  that  slept  so  long, 
Reposing  in  a  trance,  like  death, 

Thy  springs  are  stirred  with  feelings  strong, 
And  troubled  by  an  angel's  breath. 


m. 


Oh,  wake  me  not,  my  life,  my  love, 
From  this  strange  trance  of  ecstasy; 

My  sweet,  delusive  dreams  approve, 
Because  my  dreams  are  all  of  thee. 


20 


23° 


SONG. 


SONG. 


IMPATIENTLY  tossing,  my  bark  by  the  shore 
Is  waiting  to  bear  me  the  wide  waters  o'er ; 
One  hour  is  left  only :  bright  wine,  and  thy  smile, 
The  gloom  of  this  meeting  must  gild  and  beguile. 
Then  health  to  thee, 
Lovely  lady  mine; 

Thine  image  will  still  fill  my  memory 
When  I  look  on  the  rosy  wine. 

n. 

No  thought  of  to-morrow  must  shade  us  to-night; 
Let  us  spend  the  last  moments  in  love  and  delight; 
And  the  last  cup  of  wine,  and  thy  last  kiss,  shall  be 
Sweet  things  to  dream  over  when  far  on  the  sea. 
Then  health  to  thee,  etc. 


The  fondest  of  lovers  must  sever  at  last, 
And  the  love-lighted  Present  will  soon  be  the  Past : 
Then,  oh,  let  us  feel,  as  that  moment  draws  near, 
'Tis  better  to  part  with  a  smile  than  a  tear ! 
Then  health  to  thee,  etc. 


THE   KISS.  231 


THE    KISS. 

I  WAS  sad,  and  worn,  and  lonely, 

Far  away  from  bliss, 
When  I  asked  a  lady  only 

For  a  little  kiss. 

But  she  would  not  grant  the  blessing; 

With  averted  eye, 
She  denial  slow  expressing 

Sadly,  with  a  sigh. 

Still  imploring,  I  persisted, 

Murmuring  in  her  ear, 
Till  at  last  my  love  resisted 

Only  with  a  tear. 

She  has  kissed  me,  and  the  shadow 

From  my  path  has  gone ; 
All  the  earth's  a  fragrant  meadow 

Blooming  in  the  sun. 

She  has  kissed  me,  and  the  sadness 

Like  the  night  has  fled  ; 
All  below  is  green  with  gladness, 

Radiant  overhead. 


232 


'  IN  MEMORIAM. 

Oh,  my  darling  !   feel  forgiven 

For  our  secret  bliss, 
Since  we  made  an  earth  a  heaven 

By  a  little  kiss. 


IN    MEMORIAM. 

Died,  in  San  Francisco,  on  the  evening  of  Wednesday,  the  27th 
of  October,  1858,  Thomas  O.  Larkin,  a  native  of  Charleston, 
Massachusetts,  in  the  fifty-sixth  year  of  his  age. 

FAIR  San  Francisco,  widowed  and  in  tears, 
Says,  as  she  bends  above  her  ocean's  foam, 

"One  of  my  first  and  boldest  pioneers 
Has  silently  gone  home." 

For  more  than  twenty  years,  through  fire  and  flood, 

As  nearly  as  a  human  being  can, 
In  doubt,  distress,  and  danger,  still  he  stood 

A  kind  and  honest  man. 

Peace  to  his  body  in  its  final  rest, 

And  light  and  verdant  its  enclosing  sod ; 

With  confidence  the  soul  that  warmed  that  breast 
We  can  resign  to  God. 

Among  the  foremost  of  the  gallant  band 

To  whom  command  in  this  new  land  was  given, 

He  has  gone  fearless  forth  to  take  his  stand, — 
A  pioneer  in  heaven. 


SONG. 


233 


SONG. 


YE  stars  that  look  at  me  to-night, 

How  beautiful  you  seem  ! 
For  I  have  found  my  spirit's  light,- 

The  seraph  of  my  dream. 
Oh,  never  half  so  bright  before 

Have  I  beheld  you  shine ; 
For  heaven  itself  looks  lovelier 

To  lover's  eyes  like  mine  ! 

II. 

Alas  !  I  fear  when  midnight  waits 

To  catch  my  voice,  in  vain, 
The  listeners  at  your  golden  gates 

Will  hear  some  other  twain, 
Whose  hearts,  like  ours,  in  melody 

Will  sadly  throb  and  sigh 
To  see  how  calmly  you  behold 

E'en  lovers  kiss,  and — die  ! 


20* 


234 


A   DREAM. 


A    DREAM. 


DREAMS  are  but  shadows, — one  may  tell  his  dreams. 

I  dreamt  last  night  I  walked  by  an  abyss, 
Into  whose  depths  of  gloom  and  lightning-gleams, 

Like  Christ,  I  was  betrayed  by  a  kiss. 

II. 

A  lovely  fiend  allured  me,  as  I  thought, 

Across  the  verge  of  that  most  frightful  place ; 

Yet,  though  I  knew  my  ruin  must  be  wrought, 
I  could  not  turn  my  eyes  from  her  sweet  face. 


To  her  ripe  lips  my  lips  I  madly  pressed, 
Even  while  I  dropt  into  the  gulf  below ; 

My  arm,  half  willing,  clasped  her  yielding  waist, 
Wild  with  the  rapture,  reckless  of  the  woe ! 


Sudden  a  voice — a  far-off,  holy  voice, 

Well   known,   long  loved,   and  loving — broke   the 

spell : 
An  arm  unseen  from  those  unholy  joys 

Caught  me  half-way  to  ruin  as  I  fell. 


EPITAPH  ON  EDWARD   POLLOCK. 


V. 


235 


I  woke:  'twas  day,  and  through  my  silent  room 
I  saw  the  golden  sunlight  softly  stream, 

And,  chilled  with  horror  at  my  dream  of  gloom, 
Gave  thanks  to  Heaven  that  it  was  all  a  dream. 


EPITAPH    ON    EDWARD    POLLOCK. 

BEHOLD,  to  dust  there  crumbles  here 
A  heart  that  was  at  least  sincere : 
If  follies  soiled  or  anger  marred 

The  brightness  of  his  simple  mind, 
When  with  his  soul  the  cold  world  jarred, 

At  least  they  left  no  trace  behind, 
But  kept,  through  all,  a  freeman's  pride,— 
Wept,  smiled,  loved,  married,  lived,  and  died. 


236  LINES. 


LINES 

WRITTEN    IN   THE   TROPICS  DURING   A  VOYAGE   TO 
CALIFORNIA. 

THE  clouds  are  darkening  Northern  skies, 

Yet  these  are  all  serene  ; 
The  snow  in  Northern  valleys  lies, 

While  tropic  shores  are  green ; 
But  radiance  tints  those  far-off  hills 

No  summer  can  bestow; 
For  there  the  light  of  Memory  dwells 

On  all  we  love  below. 

The  stars  that  watch  this  Southern  zone 

Are  shining  soft  above ; 
But  starlight  glads  my  heart  alone 

Returned  from  eyes  I  love. 
Those  nights  of  joy  we've  passed, — but,  oh, 

On  yon  forsaken  shore, 
Dear  love,  thy  nights  were  nights  of  woe 

Should  I  return  no  more. 

I  watch  yon  point  of  steadfast  light 

Declining  to  the  sea, — 
Yon  Polar  star,  that  night  by  night 

Is  looking,  love,  on  thee. 


ISABELLA   POLLOCK.  237 

Oh,  give  me,  Heaven,  I  constant  sigh, 

For  all  this  flowery  zone, 
A  colder  clime,  a  darker  sky, 

And  her  I  love  alone  ! 


DIED, 

ISABELLA   POLLOCK,  AGED   SEVENTEEN   YEARS  AND   SIX 
MONTHS. 

MOURN  her  not:  why  shouldst  thou  mourn  her? 

There  is  nothing  here  but  clay. 
Though  a  ruthless  hand  hath  torn  her 

From  thy  loving  arms  away, 

She  has  only  gone  before  thee 

O'er  a  path  that  all  must  tread, 
And  the  grave  will  soon  restore  thee 

To  the  presence  of  the  dead. 

Think  not  that  the  earth  can  cover 

That  light  form  and  sunny  brow; 
Thou  wouldst  weep  no  more  above  her 

Could  thine  eye  behold  her  now. 


238  HAPPINESS. 


HAPPINESS. 

A   FRAGMENT. 

O  HAPPINESS  !  where  art  thou  not  ? 

I  see  thee  in  the  laughing  skies; 
By  every  green  and  shady  spot 

Thy  form  is  e'er  before  mine  eyes; 
The  rosy  morn,  the  starry  night, 

The  fresh  wind  blowing  light  and  free, 
Each  brings  its  thoughts  of  warm  delight, 

And  all  is  happiness  to  me. 

They  widely,  vainly  err  who  deem 

That  all  on  earth  is  dark  and  drear, — 
Who  think  that  ne'er  one  truant  beam 

Of  heavenly  light  can  reach  us  here. 
Ah,  no !  though  lone  our  path  below, 

Some  joys  are  left,  some  hopes  are  given, 
To  bid  the  erring  wanderer  know 

That  earth  is  but  a  step  to  heaven. 


ZOVE-SONG.  239 


LOVE-SONG. 


MY  scul  is  faint  with  ecstasy ! — 
Oh,  let  me  lean  upon  thy  knee  ! 
So,  from  thy  drooping  eyes  above, 
The  faint  but  rapturous  beams  of  love 
May  shine  on  me. 


Loose  from  around  thy  forehead  fair 
The  masses  of  thy  long  brown  hair: 
Within  that  veil  no  envious  light 
Shall  mock  the  blushing  days  with  sight 
Which  we  shall  share. 


Bend  lower  with  those  dark  bright  eyes, 
That  light  the  night  when  daylight  dies. 
Oh  that  I  could,  as  sweet  winds  do 
On  flowery  banks,  adored,  on  you 
Dissolve  in  sighs ! 


240  MIDNIGHT. 


MIDNIGHT. 

WHILE  the  low,  slow  fog-bell  frights  the  air 

That  washes  the  sand-hills  red  and  bare, 

Warning  belated  ships  at  sea 

What  woes  on  the  inward  course  may  be, 

I  lie  and  court  with  an  aching  breast 

The  presence  of  the  angel  Rest. 

She  comes  not, — she  conies  not !  woe  is  me  ! 

Have  I  less  rest  than  the  ships  at  sea? 

Shall  there  never  be  calms  for  the  ship  distrest  ? 

Are  our  prayers  in  vain  to  the  angel  Rest  ? 

Ethereal  dream,  and  false  as  fair, — 
A  phantom,  and  a  form  of  air ! 
Through  the  wild  lore  of  days  gone  by, 
'Mid  all  that  meets  the  waking  eye, 
In  sights  that  bless  the  gaze  of  sleep, 
With  those  who  laugh  and  those  who  weep, 
Through  all  that  Time  hath  left  below,— 
In  much  of  joy,  and  all  of  woe, — 
With  weary  eye  and  aching  breast, 
Long  have  I  sought  thee,  angel  Rest ! 

But  vainly  have  I  sought,  alas  ! 
Less  sure  the  mazy  paths  I  trod 

Than  the  vain  child  who  fain  would  pass 
Beneath  the  sun-built  arch  of  God  ! 


MIDNIGHT.  241 

There  is  a  land, — a  lovely  land  !  — 

A  river  with  a  mossy  strand, 

And  fringed  with  woods  along  the  shore, 

Wide,  wild,  and  green  for  evermore ; 

The  murmuring  billows  sweetly  flow  ; 

The  winds  are  musical  and  low ; 

The  thick-leaved  branches  wave  on  high, 

In  sombre  sadness,  to  the  sky. 

'Tis  a  sweet  land,  and  all  my  own, 

And  there  I  rove,  at  times,  alone, 

And,  wandering,  seek  with  anxious  sight 

The  presence  of  that  form  of  light, 

And  watch  by  calm  and  lonely  springs 

For  glimpses  of  those  sun-bright  wings  ! 

For  there,  'tis  told,  the  angel  bore 

A  gentle  sway  in  days  of  yore. 

Yet  I  but  find  sad  phantoms  there, — 

Wan  Fear,  and  Doubt,  and  grim  Despair; 

And  the  angel  whose  sweet  form  I  sought 

Is  not  in  the  silent  land  of  Thought ! 

When  Slumber's  golden  gates  disclose 

The  golden  realms  of  weird  Repose, 

The  nightless  skies,  the  sunless  beams, 

That  arch  and  light  the  land  of  dreams, 

I  sometimes  see  her,  soft  and  fair, 

Hang  hovering  in  the  purpled  air. 

Those  wings,  beneath  whose  shadows  blest 

I  fain  would  lay  me  down  to  rest, 

Invite  me.     Ere  I  reach  the  spot, 

The  scene  hath  changed, — the  form  is  not  ! 

On  a  wide  waste  I  pant  for  breath, 

A  formless  void,  expanse  of  death  ! 

21 


242  MIDNIGHT. 

Without  a  sound  of  mirth  or  moan, 
I  stand  unpitied  and  alone. 

I  sometimes  dream, — and  start  with  fear, 
So  hideous  doth  the  thought  appear,— 
The  shadows  of  those  wings  that  wave 
Fall  on  a  low  and  lonely  grave. 
Alas  !   and  must  this  aching  head 
Find  Rest  alone  among  the  dead  ? 
Oh,  God  !   on  this  bright  world  no  calm? 
For  wounded  hearts  no  hope,  no  balm  ? 
No  pillow  but  the  tomb  for  care,— 
And  all  so  dark,  so  silent  there ! 

An  earthy  bed,  by  rude  hands  made, 
And  trenched  by  mattock  and  by  spade, 
A  fresh-cut  sod,  an  upright  stone, 
And  trees  that,  shivering,  seem  to  moan,- 
Is  such  the  couch  where  all  our  woes 
Must  find  their  period  and  repose? 
Then,  mother  Earth,  on  thy  clear  breast 
I  would  await  my  Lord's  behest, 
Watched  over  by  the  angel  Rest ! 


THE    END. 


TJKIVBESIT7 


